


My Blood is Poison (My Veins are Death)

by dreamtowns



Series: our hope is a weapon [1]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Budding relationships, Fluff and Angst, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Multi, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, energy manipulation, friendships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-03-07 20:42:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13443015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamtowns/pseuds/dreamtowns
Summary: Teikō Academy was a school of geniuses, but they were also a school of assassins. A year prior, undercover agents revealed the atrocities the Academy committed for the sake of the doctrine they proposed—they tortured, experimented on, and conditioned their students to create child assassins.Furihata Kōki was indifferent to the Generation of Miracles. He did not care for basketball prodigies nor for trained assassins. He was surprised, however, to find Kuroko Tetsuya at basketball practice at Seirin High, and resigned himself to a high school career of quiet chaos.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Don't Blink You'll Miss It (Lift Up Your Head)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5556464) by [umisabaku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/umisabaku/pseuds/umisabaku). 



> I do not own Kuroko no Basuke | The Basketball Which Kuroko Plays. It belongs to its' mangaka, Fujimaki Tadatoshi. This is for entertainment purposes only. 
> 
> I really enjoyed writing this, since I've never really written something like this before, so I hope you all enjoy reading it!

Furihata Kōki is an unremarkable teenager. He has features few look at twice, and an easily-overlooked, slim stature. Sometimes, he speaks so quietly it is as if he hadn’t spoken at all. Furihata is a forgettable teenager, used to fading into the background. There are few people who remember his name.

When he crosses the threshold to Seirin High, he expects a quiet high school life filled with the library committee and the basketball club. When he makes his way inside the gym, he expects a quiet basketball practice. Furihata does not expect Kuroko Tetsuya.

In retrospect, no one expects Kuroko Tetsuya. No one expects Furihata, either. The Miracle’s sky-blue hair catches his eye, but he remains quiet as the rest of the gym, including Aida Riko, the coach, assumes him to be a no-show. Talking brought attention, and Furihata learned early on that nothing good happened from attention.

“Teikō, huh?” Kawahara Kōichi mutters.

“I know, right?” Fukuda Hiroshi says. “He’s so— _little.”_

Teikō Academy boasted education from preschool to high school, and alumni went to prestigious Universities, participated in famous research, and worked at prosperous companies. When the news broadcasted the Horror of Teikō Academy, only two months into his third year of middle school, it had been inconceivable. Teikō was the herald of education, the crown jewel of Japan.

An undercover agent posed as a timid chemistry teacher and smuggled herself into the Academy. She gathered intel on Teikō and their inner workings for months, and brainstormed ideas on how to liberate the children. In an interview, she explained one of the students had given her a goldmine of information, things she didn’t have access to due to her lowly status in the Academy. The child was essential to the operation, she told the world.

“Without him,” she spoke, her eyes clear, “I fear what might’ve become of those children.” A reporter had asked for the child’s name, but the woman, known as Adachi-sensei to those in Teikō, refused to comment.

The government stressed the image of Teikō’s current students and alumni being innocent victims, helpless children in the face of monsters they were told to trust. The public devoured the image, content to blatantly ignore the fact that said harmless, helpless children were also trained and conditioned to kill. The public was ready to burn the boarding school to the ground when a few of the files were made public, mostly the brutal training exercises and punishments the students were subjected to on a near daily basis.

Most of Teikō’s alumni faded into the background, a bunch of nameless, faceless students. The Generation of Miracles—or, rather, Unit Miracle—took Japan, and the internet, by a storm during the Horror of Teikō. A group of seven individuals, known as basketball prodigies (including an intelligent, analytical mastermind of a manager), with eccentric hair colors. They outshone the other students of Teikō with their auras alone.

Practice ends with little fanfare. Furihata successfully blended into the background, and it seems only the coach knew he existed. That was fine with him. Furihata is used to being the last thing someone thinks of; difficult to remember and difficult to place. He goes to his apartment after a celebratory meal at Maji Burger, and tackles some worksheets before going to bed.

He does not think much of the Generation of Miracles, and their prowess in assassination or basketball or school as he falls asleep. He does not think of Miracle Kuroko Tetsuya, and the blank look in his eyes. Furihata does not think much of Teikō Academy. He does not think of much these days.

Furihata stands on a rooftop with the other basketball hopefuls. Riko grins, wild and dangerous, and tells them they must shout their goal to the rest of the world. Kagami, with the confidence of a king, goes first. Furihata has a part to play so he raises his hand sheepishly, and asks, “Can I say I want a girlfriend?”

“No,” Riko says. “Not good enough.”

Furihata fakes disappointment. He does not say what his true goal is. When half of his fellow first years state their goals, he still asks, “I want a girlfriend, can that be my goal?”

The answer is still no.

In the end, they’re scolded by a teacher, but Furihata has been inducted into Seirin’s basketball team. The rest of the day crawls by, but before he can go home, there is a library committee meeting he must attend.

“Ah, hello, Furihata-kun,” a voice says.

Unlike the girl next to him, Furihata doesn’t jump at Kuroko’s “sudden” appearance. “Hi, Kuroko-kun,” Furihata greets quietly, wary of being overheard by the clubs’ advisor, who goes over what is expected of the library committee.

When the meeting is over, Furihata makes his way to Maji Burger. It’s the second time that week he’s eaten out, and he knows it isn’t healthy, but the longer he stays out of his apartment, the better. He notices the shadow at his heels a few minutes into his walk.

“Kuroko-kun,” he says, “You live in this direction?”

Kuroko’s blank eyes don’t display his shock at being noticed. Like Furihata, there are few people who take note of the smallest Miracle. “I do,” he replies. “Maji Burger is this way, too. I like their milkshakes.”

“What’s your favorite?”

“Vanilla.”

“I like their strawberry milkshakes.”

They fall into companionable silence at that. There is nothing else to be said. When they reach Maji Burger, the first thing Furihata notices, besides the dinner crowd, is Kagami’s unmistakable eyebrows. The next thing he sees is the towering pile of burgers said teen devours, oblivious to the shocked looks from other patrons.

Furihata orders a strawberry milkshake and a burger, and frowns at the singular milkshake in Kuroko’s hands. “U-Um, are you sure that’s all you want to eat, Kuroko-kun?”

“I’m not hungry,” Kuroko replies, and then sees Kagami. “Ah. It’s Kagami-kun.”

Before Furihata can say a word, Kuroko is halfway to Kagami’s table. He sighs, quietly, and follows his fellow teammate. Kagami doesn’t notice when they settle themselves across from him, enthralled in the meal before him. Furihata sips his milkshake, and counts the minutes it takes for the large teen to notice them.

Five minutes pass when Kagami finally sputters, “Y-You! When did you get here!”

Kuroko sips his milkshake. “We have been here the entire time, Kagami-kun.”

Amusement curls in Furihata’s stomach as he unwraps his burger.

“Liar,” Kagami replies in a gruff way. “You weren’t here when I sat down.”

“Kagami-kun is very oblivious,” Kuroko replies.

Kagami sputters again, and Furihata’s lips twitch at his indignant expression. “Go find another table,” Kagami ends up growling.

Furihata quirks an eyebrow. “They’re all full, Kagami-kun.”

Kagami scowls, and then frowns at Kuroko’s lack of food. “Here,” the teen says, pushing a wrapped burger in Kuroko’s direction. “Eat that. Practice was grueling today.”

Furihata hums in agreement.

“Wow,” Kuroko sips his milkshake. “I didn’t know Kagami-kun was such a mother hen.”

Kagami sputters again, and Furihata chokes on his laugh.

*

“Oi, Furi,” Kagami says a few days later. “What’s with this Miracle bullshit?”

Furihata blinks. There’s a dark, thunderous scowl on Kagami’s lips as he wrings his towel in irritation. “Um, what?”

“The Generation of Miracles,” Kagami repeats, an annoyed look in his eyes. “Everyone’s making a big deal about them.”

Furihata stares, and Kagami bristles at the judgement he finds. “Are you—,” Furihata begins and then pauses, and rewords his thoughts. “You don’t listen to the news, do you?”

“I do!” Kagami scowls. “Just…the sports section.”

Amusement sparkles in Furihata’s eyes. Riko, who overhears, chucks her clipboard at the back of Kagami’s head. “It was on every single channel in Japan, _Bakagami!_ How do you not know about the Generation of Miracles? _”_

Kagami bristles once more, and reminds Furihata of an indignant cat.  “Ain’t my fault everyone likes to watch the news here!”

Riko throws her clipboard again. “That doesn’t make any sense!”

Kagami’s face darkens. “Just tell me what it’s about.”

Hyūga fixes his glasses. “Teikō was a boarding school with a double purpose—education and assassination—,”

“What,” says Kagami.

Hyūga ignores him and continues in a low tone. “Teikō tortured their students in the name of absolute victory, and an undercover agent disguised as a chem teacher revealed the Horror of Teikō last year.”

Kagami falls silent, face clouded with emotion. After a moment of quiet, he whispers, “They were tortured? All of them?”

Riko nods. “All of them.”

Kuroko then appears at Kagami’s elbow, and asks for one of the spare hand towels. Kagami looks at him in a new light, as if he had never seen the smaller teen before. Kuroko, used to those looks from the other members, repeats his request. Furihata immerses himself into the rest of practice, erasing all thoughts of the Academy, and the Generation of Miracles.

When practice ends, Fukuda and Kawahara appear at his sides. For a moment, Furihata falters, and he thinks he is someplace else, someplace darker, colder, and there are iron shackles on his wrists, and then Fukuda says, “Hey, Furi, let’s go to the arcade!”

Furihata shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Kawahara furrows his eyebrows together. Furihata, always the coward, doesn’t answer the question in their eyes, and goes home to an empty apartment.

*

A few days before Kise Ryōta stormed inside of Seirin’s gym, demanding Kuroko’s transfer, Furihata meets the face of the Miracles over the weekend. He’s in need of a new wardrobe, and his guardian gave him a silver card when he asked for money. Inside of one of Tokyo’s various shopping malls, Furihata stares at the amount of clothing stores with varying degrees of trepidation.

He enters one and starts sorting through a rack of men’s button downs. He ignores the squeals and whispers from the female section, knowing their attention was on the boy wearing a hideous disguise—an ugly floral print shirt, khakis, a sun hat, and round sunglasses. Furihata thinks Kise has no idea that his disguise makes him even more noticeable.   

“Ooh, that’s a nice outfit you have there, stranger-kun,” Kise says.

Furihata doesn’t blink at his sudden appearance. “Thank you,” he says, and then eyes the horrible clash of colors the Miracle sharpshooter wears. “You look…nice.”

Kise beams, and then deflates. “I know I look like a hot mess, stranger-kun. There’s no need for the praise.”

“My name is Furihata. Furihata Kōki.”

They fall into a comfortable silence. Furihata continues to look at the store’s collection of button-downs, ignores the increasing volume of murmurs from the other half of the store, and is unimpressed by the intensive stare Kise levels at him when, once again, he pulls out a long sleeve, checkered button down.

“Furihata-kun,” Kise says and, without preamble, grabs his wrist. “I know a great store that’ll suit you better than this one!”

Before Furihata can blink, he’s in the middle of a storm. Kise drags him into stores and boutiques he’s never heard of before, expertly pulling clothes off the racks that are both stylish and affordable and shoving him into a dressing room with orders to try them on and “model for me, Furihata-kun!”. Although exasperated, Furihata acquiesces to Kise’s demands. There’s no reason to say no, honestly, and Furihata knows next to nothing about the newest trends and fads in the fashion world.

He was raised to notice things, notice behavior, notice double-edged words, and he notices the way Kise slowly relaxes in his presence. His sharp, empty smiles fade from his lips, and make way for something smaller, but genuine, and his laughter, low and husky, floats in the air whenever Furihata manages to say something witty.

By the time he collapses at an empty table in the food court, all but drowning in shopping bags, he realizes he’s spent the better part of his day inside the mall. Kise, now dressed in an inconspicuous gray shirt, black pullover, and black jeans when Furihata had demanded he change out of the eyesore he called a disguise, sips from his soda.

“Are you tired, Furihata-kun?” Kise asks.

He shakes his head. It took a lot to get him tired nowadays. “Are you?”

“No.” A wry, almost secretive, smile twists Kise’s lips. “I have exceptional stamina.”

Furihata blinks. For a moment, he forgot who Kise Ryōta was—not the model, not the teen in a horrible disguise, not the cheerful shopaholic, but, instead, the boy trying his best to heal from his tenure at the Academy.

“Kise-kun,” he says after a moment. “Are you okay?”

For a while, Kise says nothing. He stares, an inscrutable look in his eyes, before he says, “No, I’m not okay. I—I know my family thinks otherwise, but I don’t think I ever will be.”

Furihata nods. “It’s alright, you know.”

Kise raises an eyebrow. “What is?”

“To not be okay,” Furihata murmurs, eyes fixed on the pristine white bandage wrapped around his left palm, memories of a world he left behind whirling to the forefront of his mind. “It’s exhausting, trying to be okay all the time.”

Kise’s voice pulls him out of his reverie. “Are you okay, Furihatacchi?”

Furihata says nothing about the nickname, and smiles instead. It’s an empty smile, one he plasters on his face whenever the Seirin duo attempts to drag him into their after-school shenanigans. Kise blinks at the hollow smile, and wonders of the secrets it protects.

“No,” he says, after a tense moment, because he knows Kise is a living lie detector. “I have never been okay.”

It begins to rain when they leave the mall. Kise bemoans the weather, worried about their clothes, while Furihata directs him towards his apartment, which is only a block away from the shopping center. The complex is quiet when they enter, but that’s normal. Furihata’s only neighbor is an old woman who likes to give him blueberry pies every Thursday.

“Ooh,” Kise says when he toes off his shoes. “Your home is cozy, Furihatacchi!”

Furihata hums and rummages around for towels and spare clothes he thinks will fit Kise. He doesn’t think of this place as home. There are too many empty places he can’t fill, no matter how hard he tries. He’s triumphant in his search, finding faded drawstring sweats and an old shirt from his guardian, and hands Kise the clothes before ushering him into the bathroom. Furihata then busies himself with tea after he changes into something less wet.

“Furihatacchi,” Kise says when he’s out the bathroom, peering at the miniscule number of pictures on the bookshelf in the living room. “Why aren’t you in any of these pictures?”

Furihata’s stomach sinks underneath the ground. These questions were inevitable, but it didn’t mean he was prepared for them. He sips his tea—black, with honey, and a dash of sugar—and attempts to reiterate the story he had to tell the basketball club’s advisor, when the man questioned why his permission slip for out-of-prefecture games wasn’t signed. His tongue is heavy in his mouth.

“Furihatacchi,” Kise says, quietly but no less seriously. “Where are your parents? It’s dinner time, shouldn’t they—?”

“My guardian isn’t really around much,” Furihata interrupts, because he doesn’t think he can bear to hear the rest of Kise’s innocuous question. Then, gentler, he adds, “I don’t live with my parents, Kise-kun.”

“Oh,” Kise says, voice small. He brightens after a long pause and says, “I know! I have these family dinners every weekend, and I know my family would love to meet you!”

“Um, Kise-kun—,”

“Lemme call my mom really quick!”

Furihata blinks, stunned, at the way vibrant, carefree way Kise speaks with his mother, relaying the situation, and asking for permission to invite Furihata into Weekly Kise Family Dinners. On the other end, Furihata hears an enthusiastic chorus of supportive chirps, and Kise beams when he ends the call.

“Grab your umbrella, Furihatacchi!” Kise orders. “Mom’s making pasta!”

He ends up being told, at the end of the chaotic dinner comprising of every member in Kise’s family, that he is now a mandatory member of their weekly dinners. He ignores the tears building in his eyes at the kindness and warmth he discovers in Kise’s family and, thankfully, they don’t comment on the way he wipes his eyes.

“Hey, Furi-tan,” Satomi, Kise’s oldest sister, grins at him over the bowl of rice. “Have you ever played Mario Kart?”

Furihata blinks, slowly, puzzled by the odd name. He shakes his head, and Satomi’s grin widens. She whistles, catching the attention of those still in the dining hall (it has to be called a hall, because the table sprawls across the room, and there are so many chairs, so much noise, so many blondes and brunets Furihata has lost count after he is introduced to the first five people in Kise’s family).

“Impromptu game night,” Satomi declares in the silence. “Furi-tan hasn’t played Mario Kart before!”

The hall erupts into boisterous noise, and Furihata can only wonder what kind of monster he unleashed.

*

The days blur together as they’re immersed in the Inter-High bracket. Furihata goes grocery shopping one afternoon, when he feels like he can breathe again. As he leaves the store, arms laden with multiple bags, he notices a black-haired teen leaning against a rickshaw, exhaustion sprawled over his face.

“Um,” he says, hesitantly, because he isn’t sure he wasn’t to get involved in…whatever he was witnessing. “Are you alright, sir?”

The teen blinks. “ _Sir?_ Who’re you calling _sir?_ I don’t look that old, do I? Is it the wrinkles? I cannot believe Shin-chan has given me _wrinkles!”_

Furihata smothers a snort at the others’ dramatics. “S-Sorry, uh…”

“Takao,” the other offers with a wide smile on his lips. “Takao Kazunari. You?”

“Furihata Kōki,” he says, and then looks at the odd vehicle. “What is this?”

“Shin-chan’s rickshaw,” Takao says in an upbeat tone. “He has me drive him all around,” he adds with a dramatic eyeroll. “He says he doesn’t want to exhaust himself for basketball, but I think he’s just lazy and wants me to slave around for him.”

Furihata isn’t certain what expression he’s making, but he knows it’s a dangerous one by the way Takao pales and waves his hand in front of him.

“I—I don’t mind, really,” he says, attempting to alleviate the poor picture he accidentally painted of whomever Shin-chan happened to be. “Shin-chan’s such a tsundere, you can’t help but help him, you know?”

Furihata, in fact, didn’t know.

“If you say so,” Furihata murmurs before he realizes that his ice cream was, probably, melting. “It was nice meeting you, Takao-kun! See you soon!”

Takao makes a curious noise in the back of his throat, but Furihata is halfway across the parking lot by then. When he turns the corner, he hears someone angrily muttering about their lucky item being sold out.

*

Seirin was a peculiar team, Furihata discovered. They were cracked pieces that weren’t supposed to fit but, miraculously, they did. They all had different goals, a mesh of various personalities and abilities. Kagami was loud, but so were Hyūga and Izuki. Mitobe and Kuroko were quiet, and Koganei was mischievous with that grin of his. Coach was a hurricane all on her own.

Seirin was warm, Furihata noted. They were warm with their words and their laughter. They were warm in the way they included their teammates into virtually anything they did. They were warm in their aura, their kindness. It has been a while since Furihata knew, and saw, kindness. Sometimes, when they remembered he was there, the team would joke with him, wrap their arms around his shoulder, and smile like he belonged. It’s been a while since Furihata belonged somewhere.

They win some games, and they lose others. Furihata continues to fall in the background, unseen and unheard, and just how he preferred it. Some days, Kuroko is the only one who remembered his existence. Other days, Kuroko forgets as well. Furihata seldom sees his guardian, and their interactions are full of tense silence and pauses. He does not mind. He does not care. People like him are never remembered.

The only people who remembered Furihata have been dead for years.

**  
**


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Kuroko no Basuke | The Basketball Which Kuroko Plays. It belongs to its mangaka, Fujimaki Tadatoshi. This is for entertainment purposes only. 
> 
> Thank you all for the wonderful responses last chapter! I hope you enjoy this one! I'm sorry for any spelling/grammar errors my beta and I couldn't find.
> 
> Chapter Warning: There is a panic/anxiety attack in this chapter, so please be careful!

Seirin learns another fact about Teikō when Koganei, innocently, asks Kuroko where he learned his skill in Misdirection.

“In the Academy,” Kuroko explains. “My operation and training were successful, so I was able to manipulate my own molecular structure to become invisible. To make it viable in basketball, however, Akashi-kun taught me how to use Misdirection.”

The Academy experimented on their students, according to Kuroko. The students vary in their abilities—some can manipulate energy with their minds, and others manipulate it with their hands, thoughts, or even with the tone of their voice. Some students can hear the frequencies of other thoughts, and some can read auras. The Academy focused on energy and molecular frequency and manipulation. The Academy created superpowered child assassins because they could, and they killed anyone who disobeyed.

Silence descends in the gym. Kuroko blinks, face and eyes deliberately blank.

“What,” Kagami says. Furihata isn’t near his fellow first year to see his expression, but he knows it’s a dangerous one by the way Izuki winces. “Did you mean by operation, Kuroko?”

“Ah, perhaps operation was too misleading,” Kuroko says blithely, as if they’re discussing the changing patterns of weather. “Experimentation, then.”

Collectively, the gym explodes with the news.

 _“What do you mean, experimentation?”_ Coach Riko thunders.

“Exactly that, Coach,” Kuroko replies. He’s unbothered by Seirin’s indignance on his behalf. “The Academy experimented on their students, tapping into our potential for assassination.”

Koganei swallows. “Everyone? They did that to _everyone_?”

“Yes,” Kuroko says.

Furihata, as usual, says nothing.

“Hey, so…can you show us?” Fukuda questions.

Riko chucks her clipboard at his head. “Don’t be so insensitive, dumbass!”

“It’s alright, Coach,” Kuroko says. He straightens his wristbands. “I don’t mind showing you all, but please do not share this with anyone outside the gym.”

A chorus of agreements float in the air. Then, after a tense moment of concentration, Kuroko’s eyes glow a soft blue and he disappears a second later. The team murmurs in shock (or yells, as per Kagami and the more louder members). It is one thing to be told of Teikō. It is another to witness it before their eyes. Kuroko reappears after picking up a few items in the gym per Izuki’s amused requests, and a small smile dances on his lips at their mirth and awe.

Furihata blinks, unimpressed at the display, and says nothing. After all, there is nothing else to be said.

*

“Hey, hey, Furi,” Fukuda appears at his side, a wide grin on his lips. “Let’s go to the arcade today!”

“No, we went yesterday,” Kawahara protests. “How about the movies?”

Furihata tightens his grip on his bag. “Um...I dunno. I have a lot of homework to do.”

Kawahara smiles easily, and Furihata tries not to be jealous by how easily they can smile. “That’s fine,” he says, “We can have a study session at Maji or some other place.”

“Let’s go to my house,” Fukuda offers. “My mom’s trying this new cookie recipe, and it’s amazing! Just melts in your mouth!”

Fukuda and Kawahara seemed to have adopted Furihata, making their duo into a trio. They drag him to arcades when he tells them he hasn’t been to one before, they take him to the beach when he admits he has never seen the ocean, and sometimes they drag the rest of the team with them.

“You’ve never seen the ocean before?” Riko is baffled when Fukuda explains why a beach day is essential for the team. “What the—we live on an _island!_ ”

Furihata shrugs, and smiles that sheepish, innocuous smile.

“Why not?” Kuroko asks him.

“I wasn’t allowed,” Furihata says, but doesn’t respond to the other questions. He ignores the way Kuroko looks at him, as if he were dissecting Furihata with his eyes alone. Furihata has said too much already.

They don’t go to the beach, but somehow half the team plus Kise ends up crammed into his apartment. Furihata doesn’t know how Kise got involved in the mess before him, but he has the suspicion the teen had been waiting near his apartment and bumped into them “by accident” as he claimed. Furihata sighs at the noise they bring, and makes them all tea. They’re all being nosy, filling the air up with their questions about his family, about the pictures, about his childhood. Kise and Kuroko are the only ones who are being quiet.

“Hey, Furi—?” Fukuda begins.

“Will all of you shut up?” Kise finally snaps. The team quiets at Kise’s anger, but bristles defensively at his tone. Kuroko raises an eyebrow, cool and unimpressed. “Don’t you see how uncomfortable you’re making Furihatacchi?”

His team looks at him, and notices the quiet way he makes the tea, the way he curls into himself, eyes blank, at the questions they threw in his direction. They see his pale face and shaking fingers, and realize how insensitive they were being.

“We’re sorry, Furihata-kun,” Riko apologizes, and bows low. The rest of the team follow her actions. “I—we were being insensitive.”

“It’s okay,” Furihata replies. His hands still shake when he measures the amount of sugar he puts into the tea. “I, uh, don’t live with my parents. I live with my guardian.”

The discussion of his childhood doesn’t come up again, and the conversation, predictably, turns to basketball.  

*

Two days before they’re meant to play against Shūtoku High, Furihata bumps into Takao Kazunari and meets the slave-driver, Shin-chan. He’s in a bookstore, searching through the mythology aisle, since he’s curious about folklore and common wives’ tales. He knew few myths, but most of them were somber and dealt with death.

As he reaches for a thick, ancient looking text, another hand reaches from behind. The stranger grabs the book and says, “Here you go, Kou-chan—are you okay? Are you sick? You’re looking really pale. You know, Shin-chan’s dad is a doctor, and he wants to be one too, so I’m sure if you’re sick they can—,”

“Takao,” another voice, this one deeper, less chirpy, and more annoyed, interrupts. “Why are you bothering this person?”

Takao whirls around. “Shin-chan,” he beams, and then pouts. “I’m not bothering Kou-chan!” then he blinks, and says, “You wanna be a doctor, right, Shin-chan?”

“Yes, but why is this relevant?”

“I think Kou-chan’s sick,” Takao says, his tone light, but it’s easy to hear the concern on his tongue. “Diagnose him!”

Shin-chan sighs, bothered by the command, but, nonetheless, walks closer to Furihata. The book slips from his grasp, but Takao catches it before it can drop to the ground. Furihata doesn’t move, eyes fixed on his shoes, as he waits. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, exactly. Pain, probably. His breath comes out in puffs, like he has a shortage of air, and it feels like someone is carving his lungs out his chest. His heart thumps under his skin, loud and painful, as he tries to blink memories away.

“I’m not sick,” he tries to say, but the words drown in his mouth and wither away on his tongue. A soft noise escapes instead, as he tries to breathe. Tries to think. Tries to rationalize that Takao meant no harm, that no one wished him harm anymore.

“—an anxiety attack,” Shin-chan was saying. Furihata really wishes he knew the other man’s actual name. “Furihata-san, is it alright if we remove you from the store?”

Furihata manages to nod. Spikes grow in his lungs, and ice encases his heart. A burn spirals up his throat.

“Can I touch you?” Takao asks him, in such a kind tone it makes Furihata choke. The amount of people who have shown him kindness are miniscule, and most of them are photographs on the shrine in his bedroom. “Is it okay if I touch you?”

Furihata nods.

Takao doesn’t waste time in tucking him against his side, and they stride determinedly out the bookstore, Shin-chan a short pace behind them. When a concerned employee accosts them, Takao smiles and lies, “There’s a family emergency, so we’re gonna make sure Kou-chan gets home okay.”

Satisfied by the story, the employee wishes them good luck and farewell. When they’re comfortably hidden by the rickshaw, Furihata crumbles. Takao, despite his previous grip, barely manages his hold onto him.

“Furihata-san, do you listen to Oha-Asa?” Shin-chan starts to say. Furihata doesn’t speak, because there are phantom hands wrapped around his throat. “I listen to it every morning for it allows me to schedule my day according to the luck of my sign, which is Cancer. Today, I’m ranked fifth, and my lucky item happens to be this Pokémon limited edition plushie.”

“You wouldn’t believe the trouble that clefairy caused, Kou-chan,” Takao babbles. By the way his fingers tremble on Furihata’s skin, he knows the other is sorely unprepared for this situation. “I’m ranked fourth in luck today, which is a bit weird since I’m usually…”

Furihata tunes out their words. The world swims in front of him, threatens to drown him, and ice water crawls through his veins. He breathes through rattling lungs, through a restless heart, and smothers the memories of another life, another world, another time, out of his mind. He focuses on breathing, on calming his heart, and belatedly realizes he is copying Takao’s deliberately slow breaths.

“Sorry,” he manages to croak. “I—sorry. You…you scared me.”

Takao’s voice was small. “I did?”

“Yeah, when you—,” Furihata swallows and spits out, “Behind me.”

“Ah,” Takao says, understanding his garbled words. “When I came up behind you, I startled you?”

Furihata nods.

“I’m sorry about that, Kou-chan,” Takao says, and he sounds sad, but Furihata can’t understand why. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.”

Takao snorts, and Shin-chan huffs a quiet laugh.

Furihata looks at the teen crouched in front of him. “Sorry we had to meet like that,” he says, and shows no emotion at being face to face with the sniper of Unit Miracle. “Furihata Kōki.”

“It is quite alright,” Midorima says, and fixes his glasses. “Midorima Shintarō. It is a pleasure to meet you properly, Furihata-san.”  

Takao snickers at his teammates’ prim and proper greeting. “Shin-chan,” he grins, “You’re like some nobleman in an old history novel.”

Midorima rolls his eyes, but Furihata feels the gesture is fond. “Shut up, Takao.”

Takao sticks out his tongue in reply. 

Midorima pulls out a pocket watch, ignores Takao’s sputtering laughter and subsequent ridicule, and looks at Furihata. “It is getting quite late, Furihata-san. Will you be alright getting home?”

Furihata nods and stands. His knees tremble at the effort, but there isn’t a threat of him keeling over. “Yeah, I’ll be okay. I should be getting home, though.”

Takao hums and gives him a sympathetic look. “Curfew?”

“No,” Furihata says. “I have some homework left.”

Takao makes a noise in the back of his throat, and Furihata thinks it’s a whine. “You don’t have a curfew?” he says, wistful. “How nice. Your parents must be so cool—mine insist I have to be home by eight, and it’s annoying.”

His heart aches something fierce. How he wished he could be like Takao, able to whine and complain about the rules his parents enforce. He would do anything to have a curfew. He would give the world to have an adult that cared if he lived to see another day. But all he has is a guardian who deliberately comes home when he’s asleep and leaves before he’s awake, who looks at him as if he is a stranger, a ghost in the halls, who speaks at him but never tp him, who never looks him in the eye.

“I don’t live with my parents, Takao-kun,” Furihata manages to say. He ignores Takao’s wide eyes, the horror in them. He ignores the scrutinizing look Midorima gives him as well. “And my guardian doesn’t really care about me either.”

Takao visibly flounders to say something, to save face, from the blunders he’s made. Furihata smiles another empty smile, and pats the teen on the arm.

“I’ll be alright, though,” Furihata tells him, and then starts to leave. “See you soon!”

When he’s a good distance away, he hears Takao groan, “Why must I put my foot in my mouth, Shin-chan? I was so _awful!”_

“You didn’t know, Takao,” Midorima replies, voice surprisingly soft. “I doubt Furihata-san holds you accountable for your ignorance.”

Takao wails something else, but Furihata is too faraway to decipher the words.

*

When they meet at their match, Takao and Midorima stare at him, wide-eyed and shocked. Furihata knows it’s because he isn’t the most noticeable teen on Seirin’s basketball team. From his comfortable place on the bench, Furihata gives them a wave and a smile. Mitobe watches the exchange with curious eyes, and quirks an eyebrow in Furihata’s direction.

“We met a few weeks ago,” Furihata replies before Koganei attempts to translate Mitobe’s unspoken words. “They’re really nice,” he adds, when he notices a protective gleam in Fukuda’s eyes. The Duo got protective over Furihata ever since they discovered his lack of parents and the lack of warmth in his apartment.

Riko hums as she assesses the team. “Their stats are off the charts. This’ll be a tough one, boys, but nothing we can’t handle.”

Izuki stretches. “Kagami offered to buy us food if we won or lost.”

Kagami’s outraged denial is lost in the swarm of cheers from the team.

*

“Furihata-kun, my family wishes to meet you.”

Furihata turns the page of his book, and looks at Kuroko. He doesn’t startle, because he knew Kuroko had been at his table since he started his math homework. He tilts his head, and his confusion sprawls over his face.

“Why?” he asks, suddenly nervous. He twists his fingers in his lap. “Are…are they mad?”

Kuroko gives him a look. “Why would they be mad, Furihata-kun?”

Furihata shrugs, and wants to hide at the subtle prying look in Kuroko’s eyes. “Dunno,” he says after he gathers his thoughts. “Adults are difficult to read sometimes.”

Kuroko hums. He scribbles down an answer for English, and Furihata hides his wince at the scrambled translation. “They wanted to meet my friend.”

A ball grows in Furihata’s throat. “I—we’re friends?”

Kuroko’s eyes go blank. “Ah. I apologize, but I assumed—,”

“No, no,” Furihata says, a word vomit gathering in his mouth. “I didn’t—I thought you didn’t consider me a friend. I…I’m not good with people,” Furihata admits quietly. “I…I don’t…I’ve never…”

Kuroko pats his hand, eyes warmer than before. “It’s alright, Furihata-kun,” he replies. “I’m not good with people either. I do consider you a friend, however.”

People have always slipped from his grasp. He can count the people he has once considered friends, thought of as family, on one hand. They have all been dead for years.

Furihata smiles. It isn’t a hollow stretch of his lips, but something warmer, softer, and Kuroko blinks in surprise. “I…consider you a friend, too.”

The conversation lulls as they focus on their homework, and Furihata is swallowed in a familiar routine of answering questions and researching new references for his literature essay. The clock nears five when Furihata clicks his pen, a satisfied noise curling in the low of his throat, as he finishes his last question for history.

“If it is alright with your guardian,” Kuroko says, shuffling his papers together neatly. “My family wishes to have dinner with you tonight.”

“My guardian won’t care,” Furihata says immediately, and something bitter sours his tongue as he remembers the brevity of the note he found hastily pinned to the fridge that morning. _Left for work,_ it had read. _Be back before fall._

It is something Furihata has gotten used to. He has had previous guardians who didn’t care if he lived to see the next morning, guardians who used cruel words and actions simply because they could and Furihata was a helpless target at reach, but he still hurts. He still aches, at the empty space in his heart. A space he knew his parents once filled.

Kuroko doesn’t pester him with questions. He doesn’t pry. Instead, he nods and quietly packs his things. Furihata does the same. Neither comment on the way his fingers tremble with nerves as he zips his bag closed.

The walk to Kuroko’s home is filled with comfortable silence. Furihata is too nervous to talk, because he has never been good with adults (or anyone, really), and Kuroko senses his nerves and understands bringing light to them will only make things worse.  After another five minutes, they round the corner, and a sprawling, one-story home comes to view. It’s a beautiful, traditional Japanese home with subtle Western influences. There are multiple cars parked in the driveway, and a few litter the grass.

Kuroko sighs at the sight of the hazardous display. “It seems my mother saw fit to invite the whole clan,” he says, and his lips twitch disapprovingly. “If you feel uncomfortable, Furihata-kun, it is alright. I wouldn’t mind if we saved this meeting for another day.”

For a split second, there is a “yes, I want to leave,” on his tongue, but Furihata knows he is only putting off the inevitable. If Pitcher, a boy who everyone unanimously called him that for his intense love of baseball, were there, he would’ve encouraged Furihata to “expand his horizons” and “get comfy with large groups of people” and to “stop being an antisocial hermit”. If Furihata thinks hard enough, he can almost hear Pitcher’s voice, hear that familiar laugh and teasing croon. Furihata was eleven going on twelve when Pitcher left during the middle of the school year, and came back to his parents in a body bag.

He considers the weight of his options and, after a pause, pulls himself together. “I’m okay,” he says, and the lie is bitter on his lips. “It’ll be fine.”

Kuroko stares at him dubiously. “If you say so, Furihata-kun.”

There is a whirlwind of activity in Kuroko’s home when they cross the threshold. Music hums in the air, as does laughter and chatter. Small children scurry about, chasing one another in a game Furihata assumes is tag. Kuroko says a quiet, “We’re home,” but it is as if he yells it by the sudden quietness in the air.

“Tetsuya-chan!” A woman appears in front of them, a beam on her lips. Her blue hair is pinned into a sophisticated bun, and she’s dressed in a black pencil skirt and red blouse. Furihata swallows at the gleam in her eyes. “I’m so glad you made it back alright. And who’s this?”

“F-Furihata Kōki,” Furihata stammers, toeing off his shoes.

“Wonderful, wonderful,” she says, ignoring his awkward bow. “Kuroko Noriko, this one’s mother. Tetsuya-chan, be a dear and help Furihata-chan settle, yes?”

Kuroko nods. “Who’s here?”

Kuroko’s mother sighs, looking harried. “The whole clan decided for a surprise visit—even Yori showed up, and you know how that boy is with events like this.”

Kuroko hums, and his mother whisks away towards the chorus of people calling her name. Kuroko leads him to his bedroom. It’s a quaint, medium-sized room with a bed, a desk, two bookshelves, and three beanbags on the floor.

“Please make yourself comfortable, Furihata-kun,” Kuroko tells him as he shrugs his blazer off. “We can unwind in here for a bit before we must foray into the chaos that is my family.”

Furihata snorts, amused, before he could help himself. Kuroko smirks at the action, satisfied to see the tense line in Furihata’s shoulders ease a little. Furihata leaves his bag on the floor, next to the desk, and stands awkwardly near it.

“You can sit on one of the beanbags, Furihata-kun,” Kuroko says, giving him a look. “You really aren’t used to this, are you?”

Furihata shakes his head.

Kuroko tilts his head to the side. “You never went to your other friends’ houses?”

Furihata’s throat closes. Grief, cold yet hot at the same time, unfurls a knife in his chest. He breathes around it, through the gaping maw in his lungs, but it is still difficult. His heart continues to rattle and wheeze to a tune Furihata cannot bear to hear. The only house he visited was Mushroom’s (they called him such because he had the oddest fear of mushrooms, and they were all little shits when they were younger), but Furihata doesn’t wish to remember that visit, and the days that came after.

“Once,” he manages to whisper.

Kuroko stares at him, eyes unreadable, expression blank. “I’m sorry if I brought up bad memories, Furihata-kun.”

“It’s fine,” Furihata waves his hand in the air, and sits down on the yellow beanbag before the ground slipped from underneath him. “Just—all in the past now, you know?”

Before Kuroko can say a word, his door opens. “Tet-chan, is your friend h—ooh, who is this adorable creature?”  

“This is Furihata-kun,” Kuroko says. “Furihata-kun, this is my cousin, Yuki.”

For the next five minutes, Furihata is introduced to at least twelve of Kuroko’s cousins as they swarm inside his bedroom. They’re all polite, and kind, but they are a hurricane of different personalities. Yuki is quiet but bubbly, Sayuri gets excited over the smallest of things, and Erika is as quiet and monotonous as Kuroko.

When the storm of cousins’ pass, they’re called down to dinner. “Be prepared,” Kuroko warns, though there is an amused glint in his eyes. “You may be interrogated.”

Furihata swallows but nods, and follows Kuroko into the living room. The family isn’t as large as Kise’s, but they make up for it with noise and energy. The adults pester him over what he wanted for a career, how he liked Seirin, et cetera et cetera. The excessive amount of questions exhaust Furihata, who feels as though he is being deconstructed piece by piece.

“So, Furi-chan,” Noriko says, pouring Tomio, Kuroko’s father, a drink. “What about your parents? They don’t mind you having dinner with us, yes?”

Kuroko eyes his reaction, ready to intervene and distract from the question, but Furihata says, “I don’t live with my parents, K—Noriko-san. I live with my guardian.”

Noriko doesn’t blink an eye. “Your guardian, then?”

Furihata has no idea how to respond without making his guardian seem callous in her eyes. Thankfully, a girl storms into the dining room, her loud voice and appearance a distraction to the uncomfortable question.

“Junko,” Noriko says, delighted at her entrance. “I thought you couldn’t make it?”

“WHAT’S FOR DINNER, AUNTIE?” Junko shouts. “IT SMELLS GREAT.”

Furihata flinches hard at the sudden noise, his leg hitting his chair. The room quiets at his harsh reaction, and Furihata shrinks into his seat, curls into himself, at the inquisitive eyes settled on his figure. He calms his breaths, wills his fingers to stop shaking, as he repeats to himself that Kuroko would never put him in harm’s way, that he was safe, that there would be no hands following the yells.

Kuroko puts his cup down on the table, the clinking noise sharp in the air. “Please do not shout, Junko-san,” he says quietly, politely, but, also, pointedly. “Loud, sudden noises disturb Furihata-kun and I both.”

Junko swallows.

“Ah,” she says, much quieter than before. “I apologize.”

“I-It’s fine,” Furihata says, and he smiles in her direction. By Kuroko’s amused glance, he knows he failed at his attempt of comfort. His smiles are always cold and hollow around people he doesn’t know. “I…was just surprised.”            

Although slightly tense, the rest of the dinner is filled with comfortable conversation. Furihata is content listening and watching their interactions from the sidelines. Kuroko, curiously, is the same. There are seldom moments where he starts a conversation with his relatives, only speaking when they drag him into it. When dinner ends, Furihata and Kuroko are both shooed away despite their offerings to help. As he follows Kuroko through his home, he can’t help but listen to the concerned whispers that float in the air.

_“Tetsuya doesn’t speak as much as he used to, you know.”_

_“He’s so quiet…”_

_“It’s like he fades into the background…”_

Furihata knows Kuroko has scars that are skin-deep, difficult to see and difficult to name. There is a deep mark, an empty space, that the Academy left behind. It is a space Furihata cannot see, a space that will haunt the Academy’s students for the rest of their lives.              

Furihata looks at the time, and winces. It’s late, and he has to be up at four the next morning. “Sorry, Kuroko-kun,” he says, “But I think it’s time I get home.”

Kuroko nods, and sees him to the door. He says goodbye to Kuroko’s parents and family, and makes his way home. The walk is quiet, and calming, and Furihata steps inside a silent apartment. It is always silent here. It is always cold. Furihata thinks nothing of it. There are few things he thinks about nowadays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Just wanted to thank all of you guys again for the positive responses I've been getting for this!! It honestly made me relieved at publishing the story, since it's so new for me. I'm probably going to be updating every Thursday (since I have the most free time that day). 
> 
> Don't forget you can always come talk to me on my tumblr, @sleepykenmnas, since I'm a lonely nerd lmao. we can chat about anything tbh, I'll talk about colony collapse disorder in honeybees if you want (this is an actual thing, and it's dangerous, and alarming, and yeah). 
> 
> I may also write little snippets/prompts for this series, little things I wanted to include but it just didn't fit anywhere, on tumblr but I'm still thinking on that idea. 
> 
> I'd also like to thank five_lanters once again for beta'ing this story!!! Anyway, I'm rambling, but thank you once again for reading!


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Kuroko no Basuke | The Basketball Which Kuroko Plays. It belongs to its mangaka, Fujimaki Tadatoshi. This is for entertainment purposes only. 
> 
> Thanks for the reviews last chapter!! Hope you enjoy this one! Once again, I'd like to thank five_lanters for being an awesome beta!

_New text message from: Takao Kazunari_

_Hi Kou-chan! Can I call you Kou-chan? I’m gonna call you Kou-chan! Anyway, save my number, okay? Oh! This is Takao from Shūtoku! (Shin-chan says hi, but he’s too much of a tsundere to say it himself lol) anywho, I’ve taken the liberty to add you to this group chat w other point guards in the bb circuit!!!!_

*

“Dai-chan,” a voice yells above the clamor of the farmer’s market. “Stop being an ass, you’re making Ryō-chan nervous!”

“S-Sorry,” says another; this one more apologetic.

Furihata doesn’t have to turn around to know who they are. Miracle Momoi Satsuki and Aomine Daiki stand a few feet away from him, one pouting and the other scowling. There’s a third person with them, someone Furihata vaguely remembers. The boy reminds him of an apologetic mushroom.

He turns back to his milkshake, and scrolls through his phone. Earlier that morning, Takao added him into a basketball group chat. He doesn’t know how Shūtoku’s Point Guard got his phone number, but he figures it had something to do with his anxiety attack a few weeks ago. He watches the members from different teams’ chat with one another, content to observe from the side lines.

“Oh, you’re Ki-chan’s friend,” Momoi says, a delighted gleam in her eyes. Furihata looks up to find his little table of one crowded by three other people. Without further prompting, Momoi pulls a chair up to his table. “Hello, Furihata-kun. I’m Momoi Satsuki.”

Furihata blinks. What is with the Generation of Miracles noticing him? Few people take note of him, content to ignore his existence, and he is more than happy to fade to the edges of their minds. The less people who know him, the better. He learned this the hard way.

“H-Hi,” he greets regardless.

Momoi elbows Aomine, who looks bored with the conversation already. “Aomine,” he says, and slouches in his chair. “You play basketball, chihuahua?”

“Dai-chan!”

Furihata ignores the insult. He has been called much, much worse before. “Yeah,” he replies, and then looks at the nervous teen by their side. “And you are?”

“S-Sakurai R-Ryō,” the boy says.

“What position?” Aomine questions in a brisk tone, ignoring Momoi’s chiding, and Sakurai’s nervous looks.

Furihata takes another sip of his milkshake, and wishes it were something stronger. “Point Guard.”

Momoi gives him a sharp, calculating look. “Just like Akashi-kun.”

Furihata raises an eyebrow. He knows who they are speaking of, but the façade he created on that rooftop shouldn’t. “Who?”

“Akashi Seijūrō,” Momoi explains, her eyes clear and faraway. “The captain of the Generation of Miracles.”

Furihata hums. “He sounds familiar.”

Aomine snorts. “He’s the heir to this corporate monster, of course his name is familiar.”

Furihata takes another sip. He knows of the Akashi Corporate Group, of Akashi Masaomi, the man who created a corporate monster just shy of eighteen years old, the man who started a witch hunt for Teikō Academy the second he learned of what they did to his only child. His façade should not know this, however.

The Horror of Teikō Academy was broadcasted on a Thursday morning. The most famous picture of this event was not the heroic shots of the military. It was not the images of clusters of schoolchildren in uniforms, watching with wide-eyes. It was of Kise Ryōta, the face of Unit Miracle, breaking in the arms of his uncle, Kise Masayuki, a captain in the SDF.      

The public cried for justice, but the parents?

The parents cried for blood, and Akashi Masaomi led a bloodthirsty brigade for the Academy’s ultimate ruin.

(Furihata will never forget what the man told the world, when interviewed about his witch hunt against Teikō.

“They touched _my son_ ,” Akashi Masaomi had said, red eyes glinting dangerously. “They hurt _my son_. The only family I have left—and I _want_ _their_ _blood_.”)

“S-So…you go to Seirin?” Sakurai asks him, hesitant, and then rears back as if he were struck. “S-Sorry for asking you that!”

Aomine rolls his eyes, and Momoi sighs fondly. Furihata takes note of Sakurai’s quiet wince at their reaction, and says, “Yeah, I go to Seirin. It’s a nice school.”

It is a perfect school for someone who wishes to disappear. If there is one thing Furihata is good at, it is disappearing.

Momoi hums, and gives him an appraising look. Aomine says nothing, simply glares, but Furihata has seen too much in his miserable life to be intimidated by the teens’ glare. Sakurai stays quiet, and attempts to make a hole in the table with his gaze.

All Furihata wants is to buy groceries and go home. He has no patience for a staring contest. “What do you want?”

Momoi smiles, kindness in her eyes but poison in her smile. “Did you know you’re Ki-chan’s first friend besides us?” she asks.

 _Ah,_ Furihata thinks as he takes another sip of his sugary goodness. _I know what this ‘meet-up’ is about._

“Out of all of us,” Momoi continues, “Ki-chan is the most vulnerable, and the most naïve—,”

“I’m not going to hurt him,” Furihata interrupts, and then stares at the bandage wrapped around the palm of his hand. “If anything, he’ll hurt _me.”_

Momoi raises an eyebrow. “Because we’re from the Academy?”

“No. I could care less about that.”

Momoi makes a noise in the back of her throat, prompting him to elaborate, but Furihata smiles instead, empty and cold, and Momoi blinks. He sees the calculating gleam in her eyes as she quiets, processing his words.

“Look, hurt him and I’ll break your neck,” says Aomine, impatient and gruff.  

Sakurai sputters at the comfortable way Aomine dishes out violence. “A-Aomine-kun, you can’t _say that!”_

“Huh? Why the fuck not?”

“We’re in public!”

“So?”

“I see why Ki-chan and Tetsu-kun are a little protective of you now,” Momoi says over the argument, and a warm smile slides over her face. Furihata raises an eyebrow in response. “I like you, Furi-chan, let’s exchange numbers!”

Before his mind can process the request, there are three new numbers added to his pitiful contact list. The group chat (someone named it “PG United” a minute ago) blinks with unread messages, but Furihata ignores it in favor of staring at Momoi in befuddlement.

“Why?” he asks, perplexed at the easy acceptance where there once were cold stares. “You barely know me—why do you want to exchange numbers?”

“I want to get to know you,” Momoi says, a fierce look in her eyes. “Ki-chan and Tetsu-kun barely know you, but even Dai-chan can tell you’re important to them, and Dai-chan’s an oblivious brute on a good day!”

“Oi, Satsuki!”

“What, Dai-chan? It’s the truth!”

As the two start another verbal fight, Furihata looks at Sakurai, who immediately looks in another direction. “What about you?”

It takes a while for Sakurai to find the words. Furihata waits, patient, as he watches Sakurai fumble with his words, and shake with nerves. He wonders, not for the last time, if Sakurai is simply nervous in general or if there is a story behind his stutters and flighty eyes.

“I…I don’t know,” Sakurai says, honesty in his voice. “S-Spur of the moment, I guess—I’m sorry, you can d-delete it if—,”            

“I won’t,” Furihata says, and means what he says. There is no reason to delete his number, after all. “And I don’t mind it being there. I was just curious.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, Furi-chan,” Momoi says, interrupting the momentary silence, “We have to get going—there’s some meeting our captain needs us for. See you!”

Aomine huffs, but stands, and gives Furihata a parting nod. Sakurai waves. Furihata watches them leave in a whirlwind of noise, and takes another sip of his too-cold milkshake. He really, really wishes it were something stronger.

He is now acquainted with five of the Miracles, and he isn’t sure how he feels about that.

*

_PUBLIC OPINION ON TEIKO ACADEMY_

_These past months have been taxing on Japan’s public, but moreso for the victims of Teikō Academy. I have had the opportunity to interview quite a few individuals on their opinion of Teikō before and after their Fall, and, while I cannot disclose everything they’ve said, the gist is that the public is very disappointed in the government for allowing this travesty to take place._

_My first interviewee is a young…_

*

His night is filled with memories of a world he left behind, and of the people he has buried and mourned. Furihata attempts to grab a few more hours of sleep, but, when the clock strikes ten in the morning, Kawahara’s ringtone chimes from his phone. Groaning, Furihata answers the call.

“Kawahara-kun,” he greets, voice groggy with sleep, “what’s up?”

 _“Furi!”_ shouts Kawahara and Fukuda. Furihata winces at the loud tone.

 _“You have any plans today?”_ Kawahara asks.

“No,” Furihata says. “Why?”

 _“We’re having a best friend day, and you’re not allowed to back out of it, Furi,”_ Fukuda tells him, voice low and stern.

 _“Yeah!”_ Kawahara yells in the background. _“And no ditching us to hang out with that boyfriend of yours either!”_

Furihata chokes on his spit. “What are you talking about? _What boyfriend?_ ”

 _“Kise Ryōta, duh,”_ the duo chimes.

“I’m not dating Kise-kun!” Furihata denies, eyes wide. He’s never been accused of having a romantic relationship with anyone before, so this is new. “I’m not dating anyone!”

 _“Lies,”_ yells Fukuda.

 _“Wow, I didn’t know Furi was such a tsundere,”_ Kawahara says.

“I am not!”

The duo laughs and, although they can’t see him, Furihata pouts in reply.

 _“Anyway, we’ll be at your place in thirty,”_ Fukuda tells him. _“We’re gonna educate you on the wonders of Studio Ghibli!”_

The teen hangs up before Furihata can reply, and he spends a minute blinking blankly at his cellphone before he sighs, and goes to take a shower. He strips and finds himself staring at the blemishes on his skin. Surgical scars, and scars from wounds litter his skin in a systematic chaos. He has many scars—big ones, small ones, ones that can be written off as childhood clumsiness, and others that can only be described as a remnant of torture.

Furihata has been painstakingly careful when getting undressed in front of his teammates. He is especially diligent when around Kuroko, who can disappear from his view. Furihata has always been the first to arrive to the changing rooms, and the very last one to leave.

He sighs, dropping his hands, and steps into his shower.

*

“It is a crime you haven’t seen _Howl’s Moving Castle_ ,” Fukuda declares once he steps foot inside his apartment. “Or—Kiki’s Delivery Service! Or _Ponyo_ , for fuck’s sake! _Ponyo!”_

Furihata blinks, and mouths, “Ponyo?”

 “We should definitely watch Kimi No Na Wa first, Hiroshi,” Kawahara says, stepping into his kitchen for, presumably, food.

“No way,” Fukuda replies as he sits down in front of Furihata’s coffee table, placing stacks of DVDs on it. “Childhood first, Kōichi.”

Kawahara rolls his eyes. “As you wish, your majesty,” he replies, opening Furihata’s cupboards. “Hey, Furi, you got any normal food in this place?”

Furihata sighs, shutting the door behind him. Kawahara has a vacuum for a stomach. 

Fukuda sputters. “Normal fo—we just ate ‘normal food’!”

“No,” Kawahara denies. “We ate celery sticks and carrots.”

“It’s food!”

“No, it’s disgusting, that’s what it is.”

“Kōichi!”

“I am a _growing boy_ , Hiroshi, you can’t honestly expect me to actually eat and enjoy vegetables, do you?”

“Yes, I do,” Fukuda says hotly, eyes narrowed. “Vegetables are healthy, and _good for you_ —,”

“So, Furi,” Kawahara interrupts, loudly, his voice drowning out Fukuda’s scolding. “What kind of snacks d’you got? Ooh, do you have mochi? Or what about ice cream, do you have that—?”

“You are lactose intolerant, Kōichi!” Fukuda cries, hands flailing in the air. “You can’t eat products with dairy in them!”

“Sure, I can,” Kawahara says. “It’s something I like to call ‘live with no regrets’ and ‘suffer’.”

“Kōichi!” Fukuda yells, exasperated, at his childhood friend.

Furihata laughs. He can’t remember the last time he had ever truly laughed. “Sorry, Kawahara-kun,” he says, wiping his eyes. “I don’t have mochi or ice cream.”

Fukuda smiles, triumphant, and Kawahara pouts.

Furihata is regaled with remnants of Kawahara’s and Fukuda’s childhood for the rest of them morning. They watch movie after movie, and Fukuda would constantly spiral into a lecture about Studio Ghibli, or the movie they were watching, until Kawahara threw popcorn at him. His favorite movie from Studio Ghibli would have to be Ponyo. He found the animation and storyline adorable.

Kawahara and Fukuda leave after the last movie, and, all too soon, his apartment spirals into silence. Most of the time, Furihata is unbothered by the quietness, by the coldness, that creeps along the walls of this apartment. Sometimes, though, he is struck with memories of when he was once surrounded by warmth and noise, and a cold ache spreads over his chest like a gaping maw ready to swallow him whole.

He sighs, and goes to his room for his unfinished worksheets. He has no other plans for the day, so now was a good time to get a head start with his homework. As he grabs his math book, the front door opens, and footsteps pad towards his kitchen. The fridge opens. His guardian is who-knows-where until fall, and summer still drifts through Japan’s streets. Slowly, quietly, like the ghost that he was, Furihata makes his way to his kitchen.               

There is a teen eating his leftover tofu soup.

Furihata blinks once, then twice, at the dark-haired stranger slurping away as if there is nothing wrong with the picture he paints. Furihata makes himself and the stranger tea, not as nervous as he should be. He senses no harm, no ill-intent from the other, and, while he may not be good at communicating with others, he is intuitive of others.

He sips at his tea, clears his throat, and asks, “How did you get into my apartment?”

He does not say home, and the boy quirks an eyebrow at him for that. Furihata stares at him, blank-eyed and monotone in his expression. This place is not home. Furihata has never had a home, and he probably never will. It’s a fact of life he’s accepted since, perhaps, his birth.

“You’re Furihata Kōki, right?” the boy asks.

“Answer my question.”

“I have a key,” the boy murmurs. “The name’s Makoto. I came to make sure my stupid cousin didn’t kill you with negligence.”

Furihata’s lips twitch in amusement. “Thanks for your concern, Makoto-san, but I’m fine.”

Makoto rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, there’s no need to lie to me. I looked inside the fridge. Oi, midget, ever heard of a grocery store?”

Furihata drains the rest of his tea. He is too tired for this sort of conversation. Unlike others, he’s used to wondering when his next meal might come. Previous guardians withheld food as punishment whenever he didn’t behave up to par. Furihata could care less about what his guardian’s cousin thought of the meagre amount of food in his fridge.

They stare at each other for a while after Furihata pours himself another cup. He drinks his tea, and Makoto peers at him as if he is the most fascinating being he’s ever seen. Silence cloaks the apartment, filled with tension and words left unsaid. The note his guardian left is by Makoto’s elbow.

Furihata sighs. “What do you want, Makoto-san?”

Makoto shrugs. “Like I said, I came to see if you were alive or not.”

“Well,” Furihata says, dryly amused. “As you can see, I’m alive.”

Makoto hums and leans back in the chair. “I’m not so sure about that, Furi—there’s a difference between being alive and being _alive.”_

Furihata pointedly takes another sip of his tea, and ignores the subtle insinuation. Makoto’s lips twitch in amusement, and then he blinks at the bandage wrapped around Furihata’s palm. “What’s with that?” he asks, eyebrows raised, eyes wide with curiosity. “Someone hurt you or something?”

“Or something,” Furihata replies. “I have a scar there.”

Makoto’s eyes are sharp. “What happened?”

Furihata takes another sip of his tea. “You got what you came here for, Makoto-san. You can leave, you know.”

Makoto hums. “Alright, alright, no more questions—actually, no, I got one more.”

Furihata’s answering groan is quiet yet loud at the same time. Makoto smirks.

“Don’t suppose you know where my shitty cousin is?”

“Nope.”

“Hmm.”

Furihata opens his mouth, probably to tell the older teen (as politely as he could) to leave, but his front door swings open with a flourish of noise. “Furihatacchi,” Kise sings from the doorway. “I’ve brought dinner!”

There are many things Furihata wants to say as he watches Kise walk towards him, arms laden with takeout boxes, but what he says is a simple, “What.”

“I noticed you have nothing in your fridge,” Kise chirps, unbothered by the glare on Furihata’s face, and places the food on the table. “So, I bought us some dinner—and, also, one of my favorite shows is marathoning tonight, too, and my sisters find it too boring—,”

 “How did you—where did you—,” Furihata pauses, searching for the right words to say, and settles on: “Did you just break into my apartment?”

Kise smiles, so sweet and full of beguile, and Furihata huffs. He takes another sip of tea. He’s too tired for whatever Kise has planned.

“I made sure to get healthy stuff,” Kise continues as he takes out the boxes of food. “You have that game against Yōsen, you know, and Murasakibaracchi isn’t called a shield for no reason. You need all the energy right now.”

Furihata blinks. “Murasakibaracchi?”

“Murasakibara Atsushi,” Kise says. “He’s the only first year on Yōsen, and he’s really tall! Like a giant!”

Makoto coughs, pointedly.

Kise blinks at him, plops an arm on Furihata’s head, and smiles. His smile is unlike the others he has directed at Furihata. This is colder, blanker, and there are daggers hidden behind his pseudo warmth. “Oh? And you are? I’ve never seen you around Furihatacchi before. What’s your name?”

“Didn’t know you were familiar with the Generation of Miracles, Furi,” Makoto says, ignoring Kise’s questions.

Kise bristles at being ignored, and his smile tightens. His eyes lose their playful warmth when he looks at Furihata and asks, very quietly, “Do you know who this guy is, Furihatacchi?”

Furihata hears the unspoken questions.

_Is he a threat? Do you want me to get rid of him?_

Not for the first time, Furihata is reminded that the boy before him is a boy who was an assassin; a boy who knows how to hide a body; a boy who had to kill to protect himself and his friends. There is a dark gleam, a foreboding promise, in Kise’s eyes.

“He’s my guardian’s cousin,” Furihata says. “He came to see if I was, you know, alive.”

Makoto snorts. “I also criticized your lack of food.”

Kise’s defensive, protective behavior ebbs, and he gives Makoto a bright smile. “Oh, you’re Furihatacchi’s cousin? Why didn’t you say so?”

Makoto shrugs, and smiles. “No reason.”

Kise stares at him before he starts shoving food in Furihata’s direction. “You gotta eat more, Furihatacchi. You’re an athlete, you need the nutrients.”

Furihata sighs, but accepts the carton of food. He knew why Makoto hadn’t answered Kise, knew why he chose deliberate ignorance. He wanted to know how far he could push Kise, and how far Kise would go; if he would act on the promise in his eyes. As Kise chatters about his teammates, and the show he’s about to put on, Furihata has no doubt that, if, for even a moment, Kise thought Makoto was a threat, his guardian’s cousin would be leaving his apartment in a body bag.

Makoto leaves after the first episode of some K-drama Furihata can’t bother to name (something about flowers, he thinks), and, before he can swallow his thoughts, he asks, “Kise-kun, do you ever talk about the Academy?”

Kise doesn’t stiffen, he doesn’t pause the TV, in fact, he shows no reaction to the question at all until he sighs. “I don’t,” he says finally, when the ending credits of the show play. “My—earlier in the year, my family kept asking questions about it since, well, ignoring what happened isn’t healthy, but I just couldn’t talk about it, you know? The wounds were still fresh, still new, and it…it just _hurt_ to think about the Academy.”

Furihata stays quiet. He doesn’t speak, barely breaths, because it is not his place to talk. Kise, he thinks, has been quiet for too long. Despite being the face of the Miracles, one of the first teens people think of when they talk about the Academy, he has been overshadowed by others and their stories.

“For quite some time, I thought the Academy was fine,” he admits, and wraps his arms around his knees. Like that, he looks like a kicked puppy. He resembles the innocent child that he was before the Academy broke him to pieces and stitched him back together into another entity. “I thought what they were doing was _normal._ No one complained—okay, that’s a lie, we complained but…it was more childish whining really—and, despite what the public thinks, the Academy treated us…well. We got gourmet food, and they bought us expensive clothes for missions, and those who had been there since elementary school just acted like what was going on was normal so—so I adapted.

“I didn’t complain. I didn’t run away. I preached their mantra of victory or death,” he pauses for a moment, and, silently, Furihata passes him a bundle of tissues. “Thanks, Furihatacchi. Even…even though I knew the risks, I knew that one day I would go on a mission that would kill me, I still followed their words. I buried teammates, classmates, and I killed to protect my own Unit safe, and—and….”

Kise crumbles, and Furihata wraps his arms around him. This, at the moment, is the only thing he could possibly do to give Kise comfort.

“They were gonna kill Kurokocchi,” Kise sobs, and gasps heaving breaths against the crown of Furihata’s head. “They were gonna kill him, because he stopped listening when—when Sol was executed, and they were gonna make us watch. I know they were. I _heard them_. They were gonna kill him, and then they were gonna p-p-p-punish us, we were gonna be in the White Room, and—and…” Kise breathes through a runny nose, through a crying lung, before he whispers, “Why did they do this to us, Furihatacchi? Why did they think it was okay?”

“I don’t know,” Furihata murmurs. This is the only thing he could say. “I wish I could tell you.”

Kise sniffles.

The next episode begins, but they don’t pay attention to it. Kise struggles with his memories, and Furihata thinks of words to say. There are many words dancing on his tongue, words of comfort and understanding, but he swallows them. Furihata is a coward, he always has been, so he says nothing and waits.

“Thanks for listening,” Kise says quietly. “It…It feels nice, getting that off my chest.”

“It’s no problem,” Furihata replies, and gives Kise a soft smile. “I’ve been told I’m a good listener.”

Kise chuckles. “You are, Furihatacchi. And you give great hugs too.”

“Good to know,” he says, and then, hesitantly, asks, “Kise-kun? What did you mean by…you heard them? Were they talking about it in the open?”

Very casually, nonchalantly, Kise says, “Oh, I’m a telepath. I heard it in their thoughts.”

Something cold sinks in Furihata’s lungs. He swallows, and his heart thuds in his chest. “So…so know, then?”

Kise nods, and then shakes his head. “Your consciousness is very calming, and quiet, almost like this blanket of peace. I’ve only been getting baseline thoughts, and snippets of memories here and there, so I pieced it together on my own.” Kise sighs, wistful. “Your mind is very nice, you know? Everyone else’s thoughts are so chaotic, sometimes I can’t tell what’s mine and what’s theirs.”

Furihata hums. 

“And don’t worry,” Kise chirps. “I won’t tell anyone a thing—your secrets are safe with me!”

Furihata sighs again, and wonders, not for the first time, what he got himself into when he decided to attend Seirin High.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it!


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Kuroko no Basuke | The Basketball Which Kuroko Plays. It belongs to its' mangaka, Fujimaki Tadatoshi. This is for entertainment purposes only. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!!

Furihata’s peace shatters on a warm evening. He drifts through a cute little bookstore, searching for a series Fukuda recommended he read. His phone chirps every so often from the group chat (he hasn’t figured out how to stop the notifications yet), but, otherwise, he is undisturbed. A steady, quiet stream of customers walk in and out of the bookstore, and the little bell above the door announces their arrival.

“Ah,” a voice says behind him, “Furihata Kōki, was it?”

Furihata smothers his annoyed twitch. Why were the Miracles so intent on bumping into him? If Furihata knew befriending one Miracle meant he’d be interrogated by the others, he would’ve kept his distance from Kuroko and Kise since day one (he wouldn’t have, but it makes him feel better when he tells himself this).

“Hello,” Furihata says instead, allowing none of his annoyance to shine through his voice. The redhead looks like he belongs on a throne. “Akashi-san, right?”

Akashi Seijūrō dips his head. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

He doesn’t ask why the teen was in Tokyo when his school was in Kyoto. Furihata is not supposed to know this.

Akashi glances down at the book in his hands. “You like poetry?”

Furihata narrows his eyes. “How do you know my name?”

Akashi quirks an eyebrow, and his eyes—red and gold, how peculiar—gleam at the subtle defiance. “Ryōta speaks of you often,” he says, and his lips twitch as he remembers previous conversations. “I admit, I am curious about the sort of person you are. There’s a lovely café around the corner, would you mind accompanying me for a moment?”

If Furihata didn’t know better, if he were another teen, he would’ve assumed this was Akashi’s weird way of asking him out—but he knows the truth of this sudden visit and Akashi’s piqued interest. He ignores the way Akashi’s eyes softly glow with his words, and says, “Let me buy this book first.”

There is no reason to refuse, after all, and the last thing Furihata needs is to make an enemy out of one of the most feared assassins from the Academy. There is a reason Akashi Seijūrō is the captain of Unit Miracle, and it is not because he was the captain of the basketball team.

Furihata pays for his book, and follows Akashi to the café. It is as quaint and lovely as Akashi said, decorated in warm blues and grays.

They sit in silence for a while, two steaming cups of tea in front of them. Furihata says nothing, and observes the imperious teen before him. Akashi Seijūrō is dressed impeccably in casual clothes, not a hair nor seam out of place, and he looks like he belongs on the cover of one of Kise’s magazines.

“How are you liking Seirin High, Kōki?” Akashi questions, his voice smooth and silky. Furihata shivers at the way it slides over his skin.

“It’s nice, for a new school,” Furihata replies. He doesn’t comment on the way Akashi uses his first name. “Do you attend school in Tokyo as well?”

“No,” Akashi’s mouth twitches. “I attend Rakuzan.”         

Furihata hums, and wraps his hands around the mug in front of him. “I almost went there,” he admits, “But my guardian moved closer to Seirin.”

“Curious,” Akashi says.

They start discussing basketball, their teams, and common techniques players use. Furihata is quietly perplexed at their conversation, but he replies nonetheless. He can tell Akashi is used to being obeyed without question, used to people averting their gaze when he stares at them. Furihata is not like other people, so he stares into Akashi’s heterochromatic eyes as he speaks, and he doesn’t stutter like he usually does.

Yes, his aura is daunting, and intimidating, and Furihata feels as though he is being pried open by inquisitive hands, but if Furihata were anyone else, if he had not gone through what he did, he is certain they would not be having such a casual conversation. It would have been filled with stutters, and stammers, and trembling limbs.

When half his tea (it’s a delicious green tea brew, his favorite flavor, and he wonders how Akashi knew that) is drained, Furihata looks at Akashi, and asks, “Akashi-kun, why are you really here?”

Akashi raises an eyebrow smoothly, elegantly. Gold and red glint underneath the natural light in the café. “I admit, I began speaking with you due to my own interior motive,” he admits softly, but no less strongly. Akashi has a way of grasping attention, of having listeners no matter how quietly he speaks. “There are many people who wish my Unit harm, and I simply wanted to know your intentions.”

Furihata tilts his head to the side. “Am I a threat?”

“You seem to be many things, Kōki—perplexing, quiet, normal,” Akashi says, “but you are not a threat.”

“I should hope not,” Furihata attempts to joke.

Akashi chuckles lightly.

Furihata is never seen as a threat. He is too quiet, too kind, too soft. Too _something_. He is never seen as threat and, perhaps, that is why he is the biggest threat of them all. He doesn’t vocalize his thoughts but, instead, takes another sip of his beverage. There is a time and place for everything, after all, and this is not it.

Furihata knows what people think when they look at him. They see someone who is small, not yet comfortable with his long limbs. They see someone who trembles, and shakes. They see someone who stutters, and has wide, vulnerable eyes. They see someone who is weak—weak muscles, weak mind, weak heart.

Furihata is many, many things. Weak is not one of them.

(because if Furihata was weak, he would have died a long time ago.)

Akashi’s phone pings, and he glances at the message. As he reads, his eyebrows pinch together. “Everything ok?” Furihata asks, though he supposes he has no right to know Akashi’s business.

“Everything is fine,” Akashi replies and puts his phone into his pocket. “My teammates have gotten lost in Ikebukuro, apparently.”

Furihata blinks. “That…” he begins, “That is the opposite of fine, Akashi-kun.”

Akashi hums, and takes a sip of his drink. Furihata watches his movements, and understands why people have referred to him as a king. A moment of silence descends their table, and Furihata takes the time to observe those in the café. There’s a steady stream of patrons, who bring chatter and vitality to the café, and a pleasant smell floats in the air.

“How are you liking Rakuzan?” Furihata asks, if only to dispel the silence.

“It is as excellent as it proclaims,” Akashi replies after a moment of thought. “At times, however, it _does_ remind me of the Academy.”

Furihata’s breath catches in his throat. Just like with Kise and, at times, Kuroko, Furihata forgot Akashi was also subjugated to the Academy’s cruelty.

“Of course, all boarding schools are being watched more closely than before since the Academy’s Fall,” he continues. “I quite think there would be a revolt if something like this happens again.”

Furihata nods in agreement. He’d been watching forums and news stations whenever they spoke of Teikō. Most of the public lost trust in the government for allowing such a horror to take place on Japan’s streets. The government barely held a tight rein on the protests that took place over the previous months, and anti-Teikō sentiment bleeds onto every forum on the internet.

“What about the basketball team there?” Furihata asks. “Seirin hasn’t had the pleasure of a game against Rakuzan yet.”

Akashi smirks. “They are all…interesting characters, I’ll admit, but the team has grown in terms of strength and ability since I’ve joined.” His eyes shine in amusement when he adds, “I look forward to playing a game against you one day, Kōki.”

Furihata, somehow, can’t help but think he has signed a contract with a demon. Nonetheless, he finishes the rest of his tea, and says, almost mischievously, “Since you insist on using my first name, I’m going to call you Seijūrō from now on.”

For the first time since they’ve met, Akashi blinks in surprise. Furihata swallows his mirth, and quietly hopes he won’t get killed for his audacity. Then, Akashi chuckles, a warm sound to his ears, and says, “Yes, you are quite perplexing for someone so normal, Kōki.”

Furihata, puzzled, attempts to wheedle out more from Akashi, but the other teen dodges his questions with such graceful evasiveness, Furihata gives up, and asks about the Inter-High competition. Their conversation comes to a close when Akashi’s teammates call him, and Furihata realizes what time it is. He has a project for biology to work on.

When he enters his apartment, he isn’t surprised to see Kise’s shoes in the entryway. What he _is_ surprised about is the droplets of blood creating a path to his living room. His book tumbles out of his hands as he stares at the little splatters. If he didn’t know better, he would think it was paint. His stomach sinks underneath the floor as he makes his way to his living room, and he tries not to think of all the horrible reasons why Kise would be bleeding in his apartment.

When he gets to his living room, he freezes.

Kise is not bleeding in his apartment.

Kagami, however, is.

“What,” he says, voice void of emotion as he stares. _“What.”_

“Furihatacchi!” Kise comes bounding out of the kitchen with damp towels. “I hope you don’t mind? Your apartment was the closest.”      

“I apologize for the blood, Furihata-kun,” Kuroko says in a tone that makes Furihata think he is commenting on the weather.

“What,” Furihata says once again.

“I’m fine, Furi, don’t worry about me,” Kagami says, gruff but kind all the same. He’s shirtless, perched upright on the couch. he isn’t bleeding anymore, and there is gauze wrapped around his wound. Furihata stares at the impeccable dressing, and tries to breathe through clouded lungs. “We just had a mishap.”

“That,” Furihata says quietly once he’s discovered his voice, “does not look like a simple mishap.”

“There was an assassin,” Kise tells him as he dabs the few cuts on his arms. “He was aiming for Kurokocchi and I, but Kagamicchi got in the way.”

“Tsk. Don’t call me that, Kise.”

“I will call you whatever I want, Bakagamicchi.”

“Oi!”

Kuroko eyes Furihata. “Are you alright, Furihata-kun?”

“I—,” Furihata starts and swallows the words on his tongue. His knees tremble, and he grabs hold of the back of his armchair to steady himself. “Assassin?” he croaks out.

“Yes,” Kuroko says. “Do not worry. We have dispatched him.”

Kagami rolls his eyes, and mutters, “Ripped his throat out, you mean,” before he looks at Furihata and says, “These Miracles are insane.”

“I take offence to that statement, Kagami-kun.”

Furihata continues to stare at the blood, but he does not see Kagami anymore. What he sees is another boy, this one smaller, younger, less loud but just as vibrant. There is no bandage, there is a bullet whole. The living room is bathed in blood, and Furihata thinks he can swim in it. He does not see a face flushed with life, he sees vacant eyes and pale cheeks. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. All he can see is the blood pooling around Mushroom’s—

“Furihatacchi.”

Kise blocks his view of Kagami, and holds his face in his hands.

“We’re okay, yeah?” Kise says. “We’re alive. We’re here. It was a simple flesh wound, nothing too serious. Kagamicchi will be on the bench for a week, tops, but everything is alright, okay?”

Everything is fine, Furihata tells himself.

This was just a simple mishap.

*

_BREAKING NEWS_

_“This is Nozaki-san bringing you imperative news,” the woman says, features stern, “There was an assassination attempt at two of the Generation of Miracles this afternoon. The assassin was dealt with, but a bystander was injured during the alteration. I have here a witness.”_

_“It was insane,” the witness bursts out. “All you saw was this, like, flash of gray, y’know? And then someone screamed_ _—I think it was some middle schooler, actually, and, then, like, there was so much blood, y’kno? I mean, what dumbass_ _—,”_

*

Furihata turns off the news channel, and closes his eyes. His apartment is free of bloodstains, and free of basketball players. Throughout the excitement, he didn’t have the chance to tell Kise and Kuroko he had met the leader of their Unit.

He does not think of how close he was to attending another funeral. He does not think of how close he was to being alone again. He does not think of how close he was to burying another person he thought of as family. Furihata does not think these things.

Instead, he plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your support!!


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Kuroko no Basuke | The Basketball Which Kuroko Plays. It belongs to its' mangaka, Fujimaki Tadatoshi. This is for entertainment purposes only. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy this chapter, and thank you for all the wonderful responses! I will reply to the comments from last chapter as soon as I can! I've been recovering from my cold this week, so I haven't been able to reply to them as quickly as I'd like. Regardless, thanks for the support!!!

“Furihatacchi,” Kise says, in another ridiculous disguise, “Fancy seeing you here!”

“This is a grocery store, Kise-kun,” Furihata tells him, and then sighs at the way Kise practically sparkles. He doesn’t ask _why are you here,_ and he doesn’t say _did you follow me_ because he knows the truth of the matter. It has been three weeks since Kuroko and Kise were targeted by an assassin, since Kagami was injured, and Furihata has not been by himself since. “I’m buying stuff for dinner,” he says instead, and rolls his eyes when Kise brightens. “What do you want?”

“Lasagna!”

“That takes too long,” Furihata says. “Next.”

Kise pouts, and then says, “Let’s have dessert for dinner!”

Furihata raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s healthy.”

“It isn’t,” Kise agrees, “but it makes me feel like a normal teen, y’know? At the Academy, we only had traditional foods for our mealtimes. There weren’t many dessert options, either, unless there was some special occasion.”

Furihata sighs, and knows he will regret his decision by the end of the night. “Fine.”

Kise brightens and says, “Let’s have red velvet—ooh, hi Takaocchi! Wanna join?”

Takao blinks at the from the other end of the aisle, and pulls his headphones out of his ears. “Hey, guys,” he greets. “What’s this about cake?”

“We’re having red velvet cake for dinner,” Kise tells him. “Wanna come?”

Furihata is used to being alone. He is used to being forgotten. These are facts that do not bother him anymore. He got accustomed to being by himself, sleeping in a quiet home, when Vision left for a trip to Kyoto and didn’t return. For a while, Furihata felt like he was suffocating under the weight of his grief and depression, but he adapted to the situation. He locked those emotions away, to deal with when he was alone in his bedroom and could mourn in peace. It would’ve caused him problems, after all, if he showed weakness in public.

He is not used to people wanting to be in his presence.

Takao thinks of the offer before he shakes his head. “Sorry, I promised Shin-chan I’d do my math homework at his place.”

Kise smirks. “Is that what they’re calling it nowadays? _Math homework?”_

Furihata doesn’t understand what Kise means, but Takao does, and he laughs. “We’ve a long way to go before that, Kise,” he says. “For now, though, it’s just algebraic equations.”

Kise pouts. “How boring.”

Furihata still doesn’t understand.

Takao chuckles, and then looks at Furihata. “Kou-chan,” he says, “You’ve been ignoring the group chat!”

“Oh, I have?” Furihata says, even though he knows that is exactly what he’s been doing. Whenever he looks at his messaging app, he has no idea with what’s going on. The group members discuss memes and references he doesn’t understand, and probably never will.

Takao gives him an unimpressed look. “Just say hi every now and then, yeah? Everyone wants to get to know you.”

Furihata nods. “I’ll try.”

“See that you do,” Takao says, playfully stern. “Anyway, I just came here to grab some snacks since Eiko-chan—Shin-chan’s adorable little sister—wanted a few things.”

“Have fun studying with Midorima-kun, Takao-kun,” Furihata says.

Kise snickers. “Oh, he’ll have fun alright.”

Furihata blinks at the light flush crawling over Takao’s cheeks. Nonetheless, he waves goodbye, promises to have a little more presence in the group chat, and continues grocery shopping. He walks to his apartment in silence, as always, though there is a vigilant teen by his side. Kise is alert for any possible threat.

His apartment is quiet, which isn’t strange, but it is a different sort of silence, more intense and heavy. It sets Furihata on edge. Kise breezes towards the kitchen, chattering about cream cheese icing (whatever that was), and Furihata follows him quietly. He rests his grocery bags on the kitchen counter, near the sink, and looks out the window. The lights of Tokyo’s skyline twinkle underneath the cover of the moon.

He would marvel at the sight it made, but there was a gleam of gray, a flash almost, Kise tackles him to the ground. The window shatters from a rain of bullets.

Furihata’s heart rattles against his lungs, and he struggles to breathe as Kise tucks him underneath his body. Slowly, painstakingly slowly, Kise drags them towards the door, arms wrapped around his waist, low to the ground in case the assassin wants to chance a lucky shot. He stops moving when they’re in the living room, covered by the wall.

“Shit,” Kise growls, lowly, infuriated, “Shit. _Shit.”_

Furihata trembles, quietly, at the small voice in his mind that wonders if this is the Academy’s doing.

*

“—ta. Furihata-kun. _Furihata Kōki_.”

Furihata blinks at the outstretched hand. He does not recognize this man, and he thinks, wildly, heart thundering in his chest, _snap his wrist just so, jab hands in eyes, palm strike to the cheek, flee,_ but then he spots Kise a few feet away, conversing lowly with another adult Furihata doesn’t recognize, and he smothers his fight or flight instinct. The man gives him a kind smile, and Furihata knows that he is not seen as a threat. He is never seen as a threat. 

How easy would it be, then, he thinks to himself, to slide a knife over his throat?

(a demon rumbles underneath his skin and—)

Furihata shoves those thoughts away.

“I am Midorima Keiji,” the man speaks. “You probably know my son, Shintarō, since Ryōta-kun says you’re into basketball.” 

Furihata blinks once more, and sees the resemblance between the first-year shooter and this man before him. He climbs out of the car, accepting the offered hand, and observes his surroundings. He’s in a quiet, suburban neighborhood. Midorima’s house is quaint, a normal two-story home, with a small window garden.

“Follow me,” the man says, a guiding hand on Furihata’s elbow. “My son and daughter are in the living room, watching a re-run of some show.”

Furihata is quiet as he’s led inside the house. He is quiet when Midorima’s father sits him down in the living room. He is quiet when Shūtoku’s shooting guard gives him questioning glances over his presence. He is quiet when Midorima’s little sister— “Midorima Eiko,” she greets with a gap-toothed smile—attempts to pull him into a conversation over his favorite anime. For a while, Furihata is quiet. His mind races with thoughts and scenarios, with memories and empty graves.

 _Kise could’ve died today,_ Furihata thinks. _I could have died today._

“Hello, Kōki-kun,” Midorima’s mother enters the living room with a tray of sandwiches and a warm smile. Eiko cheers at the sight of food, jumping where she sits. The woman sets the tray down on the coffee table, smoothing strands of her long hair behind her ear. “I’m Midorima Ayame—your, um, guardians’ childhood friend, actually. How’re you doing?”

Furihata blinks.

Midorima takes more after his mother than his father. They share the same eyelashes, the same slant in their eyes, the same quirk of their lips. If not for the laugh lines around her mouth and eyes, and the obvious gray hairs of age, Furihata would’ve thought he was staring into the face of Midorima’s twin sister no one knew about.

The woman gives him a smile, patting his hand. “Poor thing,” she mutters under her breath.

 “Mom,” Midorima says, shifting his glasses. “What’s going on? Why is Furihata-san here?”

His mother tilts her head, calculating the risk of explaining the truth. After a minute or so, she says, “Kōki and Kise-kun were both attacked an hour ago by what we believe to be a Teikō supporter. As you know, your parents and I are both apart of the military, and Kise thought Kōki would be safer here with us.”

Midorima nods, mouth pressed into a thin line.

“That must’ve been so scary,” Eiko says, hands hovering over her mouth. “I wouldn’t know what to do.”

“Are you injured, Furihata-san?” Midorima asks him, eyes roaming over his figure as to spot any wounds.

Furihata shakes his head. “I-I’m f-fine, Midorima-san. Where’s Takao-kun?”

“He had to go home early,” Midorima tells him. “His mother needed him to babysit.”

Furihata watches the show, an anime he has never heard of and never seen before, in silence. Midorima scribbles notes in a notebook, eyes trained on the textbook in his lap. Every once in a while, his phone buzzes with a text.  Eiko makes herself comfortable against Furihata’s side, quietly giving him comfort.

“It’s gonna be okay,” she murmurs, optimistic and assuring. “They’re gonna catch the bad guy.”

Furihata gives her a smile and wishes he had that naïve innocence.

When Furihata numbly watches two more episodes, Kise steps into Midorima’s living room. “Furihatacchi,” he says, grabbing his attention. “You’ll be staying here for a bit while they clear your apartment, sweeping for bugs and all that. Don’t worry about your school stuff and clothes, Norikocchi is gonna bring it for you.”

Furihata blinks. “Norikocchi?”

“Ah, Kurokocchi’s mother,” Kise tells him. “He didn’t tell you? She’s with the JSDF, too, and so are Midorimacchi’s parents—and my uncle!”

Furihata knows this. His façade should not.

“It’s gonna be okay, Furihatacchi,” Kise says, promises. “Midorimacchi will keep you safe.”

Midorima fixes his glasses. “Have no doubt about that, Furihata-kun. You will be protected here.”

Furihata hums, and closes his eyes. Another episode plays, and Kise makes himself comfortable by his side, quietly discussing a protection detail with Midorima. Eiko plays with his fingers, enthralled with his callouses from basketball practice.

Furihata says nothing, like always, and quietly makes plans.

*

Midorima opens his room door. Kise had left earlier, though not before almost suffocating Furihata in a hug. “You’ll be sleeping in here, with me, Furihata-san,” he says and steps aside to let Furihata in.

A futon is set up already, a pillow and blanket neatly awaiting Furihata’s arrival. “Thank you,” Furihata murmurs. “And, um, you can drop the –san.”

“It is no trouble, Furihata,” Midorima says before walking towards his dresser. Furihata watches him rummage through his drawers until the green-haired teen pulls out drawstring pants and a button-down pajama shirt. “Here,” he says, stiffly, pressing the bundle of clothes into Furihata’s hands. “These are some old clothes of mine, and they look to be about your size.”

Before Furihata can say a word, Midorima bustles away and returns with a towel. Furihata holds the items in his hand, blinking dazedly, before he’s shuffled towards the bathroom.

“Turn the knob to the left for warm water,” Midorima instructs. “I use hypoallergenic bath products, so feel free to use them. The same goes for my shampoo and conditioner.”

Furihata blinks at the comfortably large bathroom. “U-um,” he says, turning, “thanks, Midorima-san.”

“Midorima is fine,” the boy says, fiddling with his glasses. “Well. Enjoy your bath, Furihata.”

Midorima leaves with a nod, and Furihata is left to his own devices. He sighs, strips, and steps into the shower. Still, however, Furihata makes plans upon plans in his mind. Someone was trying to harm Kise and Kuroko, and Furihata will be damned if he allows that to happen.

He steps out and stretches, and wonders what this situation would mean for his guardian. He grabs his clothes.

The door opens.

“Furihata, do you—.”

Furihata blinks at Midorima, who stands in the doorway. Thankfully, his pants are on but he was in the process of putting on his shirt. Unfortunately, said process left his scars on display for the entire world to see. Furihata’s mouth dries as he sees Midorima staring at the copious amounts of scarred tissue with impassive eyes.

Midorima clenches his jaw, but he doesn’t ask of the scars. Instead, he says, “I’m sorry for the intrusion,” and closes the door behind him quietly.

Furihata gets dressed, and walks out to see Midorima perched on the edge of his bed. “U-um?” he says, inching forward. “M-Midorima? Are you alrigh—?”

“Who did that to you?” Midorima questions. His voice is cold, like how it was earlier in the year. Except, that coldness was from arrogance and confidence in his basketball abilities. This coldness was much more terrifying, and Furihata shudders.

He chews on his bottom lip, weighing how much he should say. “I, um…”

“No, never mind,” Midorima pinches the bridge of his nose. “That was terribly rude, I apologize, Furihata.”

“No, you’re fine,” Furihata says with a sheepish smile. “If I saw all those scars on one of my friends, I’d ask questions too.”

The room is silent for a while, but Furihata doesn’t feel pressured.

“You do not have to tell me,” Midorima says, quietly.

“It’s fine,” Furihata says. “My, um…previous guardians weren’t the nicest of people.”

It is not the truth, but it is not a lie. Furihata is not ready to tell anyone the truth just yet.

“I’m sorry, Furihata,” Midorima says.

“You don’t need to apologize, Midorima,” Furihata replies. “We’ve all got our scars.”

Midorima touches the inside of his wrist, a vulnerable, almost haunted, expression on his face, but Furihata pretends he doesn’t see it.

*

Furihata walks to school, ears and eyes alert for any possible threats. Practice is filled with energetic, enthusiastic teenagers ready to prove themselves during the Winter Cup. During break, Furihata leans against the wall, taking careful sips from his water bottle. He observes his teammates, observes the angles of sunlight flowing into the gym from the windows, calculates the distance it’d take to reach the nearest exist, watches intently for the smallest of glints and shadows.

Furihata does not see Seirin as his family, but he sees them as companions, as friends (he has lost too much, seen too much, to think of them as family). To Furihata, who has spent his entire life burying empty caskets and lighting funeral candles, it means he will do everything he possibly could to keep them safe.

“Furihata-kun.”

Furihata smiles at Kuroko’s sudden appearance. “Hey, Kuroko,” he greets, setting his water bottle down. A few feet away, Kagami says something in his normal gruff, brusque manner and Riko raises her fan with a threatening, demonic air. Furihata is relieved Aida Riko is simply a teenage girl coaching a basketball team—she would be a terrifying assassin. “What’s up?”

“Are you alright, Furihata-kun?” Kuroko questions.

Furihata feels like he is being dissected through Kuroko’s eyes. “I’m fine,” he says, smiling that innocuously naïve smile that makes Seirin look at him with varying degrees of affection. “And you? How’re you doing?”

Kuroko’s reply is drowned out by the echo of Riko’s whistle. Furihata throws himself into the passion of the remaining basketball practice, and ignores the way his skin crawls from Kuroko’s knowing looks.

When Furihata first recognized Kuroko Tetsuya as a part of Unit Miracle, he avoided him for a month until they were both inducted into the basketball club officially. It would’ve caused prying, uncomfortable questions if he appeared to be wary of a teen who did nothing to him. Unlike popular opinion, Furihata isn’t wary of Kuroko because he was an assassin. Furihata was wary of Kuroko because Kuroko and, if he were being honest, Unit Miracle, reminded Furihata too much of the world he left behind with their empty eyes.

But Furihata forced himself to grow comfortable in Kuroko’s presence. He swallowed the grief and the hurt that rose in his chest at the sight of Kuroko’s calculating, impassive eyes. He stomped down his instinctive urges to _fight, defend, kill_ whenever Kuroko startled him with his low presence. Months passed, and Furihata did find himself growing accustomed to the blue haired teen to the point where Furihata could say he felt fond of the blue-haired assassin as well. Prolonged contact via the basketball club and library committee helped that process as well.

And because Furihata is used to Kuroko’s unique presence and ability, he notices the teen trailing behind him like a wraith. He says nothing about it to Kawahara and Fukuda, both oblivious to their unusual shadow, simply because he senses no ill-content from the phantom. The day continues, and Furihata notes, curiously, that Kuroko has not left him alone the entire day.

Practice ends, and Furihata feels a sudden need to test his hypothesis once he notices the teen a few feet behind him. Furihata walks to the public library, and spots Kuroko reading a literature book half-heartedly, eyes always trained on Furihata. He walks up to a vendor and purchases a magazine, and notices Kuroko “intently” reading a newspaper. He goes to a grocery store, and is amused to see Kuroko in the toy aisle.

Furihata stops two streets away from Midorima’s home and turns on his heel. “Why are you following me, Kuroko?” he asks, fighting an amused smile at the surprise in Kuroko’s eyes. “You’ve been attached to my shadow all day,” he continues before jabbing an accusing finger in the phantom’s direction, “You even skipped class!”

Kuroko unapologetically bows.

“I did,” he says, nonplussed. “I apologize if I scared you.”

“You didn’t scare me,” Furihata replies and tilts his head to the side. “So. Why the protective shadowing, Kuroko?”

“Kise-kun told the Generation of Miracles interesting news last night,” the boy says, adjusting the straps of his bookbag.

Furihata’s blood is cold in his veins, but he continues to smile. If Kuroko notices the way his lips tremble, he doesn’t comment. “Hmm? Like what?”

“You were attacked by an assassin last night, Furihata-kun,” Kuroko replies, quietly, wary of the clusters of people around them. “Midorima-kun, _and_ Kise-kun, were concerned for your safety whilst in school.”

Furihata blinks. “Um.”

“I am aware the perpetrator wasn’t apprehended,” Kuroko says, raising an eyebrow, waiting for Furihata’s nod, and continues, “Therefore, I decided I would keep an eye on you whenever I can.”

Furihata understands the intent. If someone he knew was being targeted, he would do everything he could to make sure they were safe. “Thank you,” he says instead of the myriad of secrets on his tongue. “But it wasn’t me they were after,” he adds, a bitter tang on his tongue. “It was, well, Kise-kun. I was—I was just in the way, you know?”

Kuroko doesn’t budge. “They may still go after you because of your companionship with the other Miracles, myself included, Furihata-kun.”

Furihata’s eyes drift to the bandage wrapped around his palm but he blinks, and focuses his attention back on his teammate.

Kuroko stares at him, shrewd and unfathomable, trying to decode the secrets hidden underneath his skin, and says, softly, “I do not speak of Teikō much, Furihata-kun, but please understand this—I am an assassin. I am a shadow. I am the last thing my targets see before they die. I am used to protecting my Unit, diligently taking out any threats before they _become a threat_.” Kuroko takes a deep breath, and Furihata hears the hitch in his throat, sees the way his shoulders tremble with memories unwanted. “I have buried many companions before, Furihata-kun—please do not make me bury you as well.”

A tight ball forms in Furihata’s throat as he stares at Kuroko, at this tiny slip of a boy. Furihata has buried many people to the point where it became as expectant as breathing. He understands the way grief taints your lungs, drags you underneath a sea of dysphoria and pain, until it is difficult remembering what it felt like to breathe properly. He understands the terror of losing another person, the anxiety over watching someone become injured because even the smallest of wounds can become someone’s deathbed if not carefully treated.

Furihata knows he will never be looked at as a threat. He will never appear more threatening than a kitten because his limbs tremble, and he stutters, and he shakes. He looks vulnerable. He looks weak. He looks _normal_ , like he hasn’t experienced grief and rage and pain, like he doesn’t know his way around a gun, like he has never been harmed by adults who were supposed to keep him safe. Everyone assumes Furihata is a civilian, a normal teenage boy.

No one expects Furihata Kōki.

(not until he has a knife in between their ribs.)

“Okay,” Furihata says, voice thick with emotions Kuroko can’t decode. “Okay. You can—you can shadow me all you like.”

Kuroko smiles, softly, faintly, and nods.

Furihata has spent his entire life scrutinized by his previous guardians, by friends who lived and died too young, too soon, by strangers who are stunned by his bright smile, by his current guardian who doesn’t know what to do with the child who is so broken and shattered, yet still functioning. Being watched by a protective Kuroko Tetsuya is no different.

*

They lose the Inter-High competition a week later, and a boy named Kiyoshi Teppei starts to heal the wounds they gained.

*

Time is a blur to Furihata’s eyes. Unofficially, he’s moved into Midorima’s home as the military tirelessly works to secure his apartment complex from any other threats. Kuroko continues to be his shadow, a quiet and appreciated presence at Furihata’s back. Seirin is oblivious to the sudden developments in Furihata’s life—Kuroko had asked if he wished to inform the rest of the team of what was going on, but Furihata refused with a shake of his head. Seirin didn’t need to know. Furihata did not want them to lose what little innocence they had left.

The unknown assassin is silent. Furihata doesn’t know where they are, who they are, or when they’re next attack is going to be. Because of this, he’s on edge.

Furihata swallows the echoes of his bloodthirst (a demon attempting to crawl out of his lungs), and continues to play the façade of the innocent, naïve, laidback teenager he began on that rooftop one Monday morning, asking, sheepishly, if his goal could be getting a girlfriend. Seirin is none the wiser to the way Furihata’s hands twitch, to the way he calculates the grief he’d give Midorima, and Kise, and Kuroko if he slipped away during the middle of the night, to the way his smile is deadly when he thinks of the way he’d snap the assassins’ neck.

Or, at least, Furihata assumes they are none the wiser—until he walks into practice Friday afternoon to find his teammates waiting for him, serious and grave.

Furihata tenses, and his mind races with different scenarios as Riko steps forward. His throat closes. His heart threatens to snap under the weight of his encompassing grief.

“Furihata-kun, this is an intervention,” Riko tells him before directing him to sit on the bench. Her hands are firm on his shoulders, pressing him down. “As your team—,”

“And found family,” Koganei interrupts with a wide grin.

Next to him, Mitobe gives a solemn nod.

“And found family,” Riko repeats, though she gives the second-year an irritated glance at the interruption. “We are concerned over your emotional state. You’ve been off this entire week, distracted and distant. Is something going on at home? Is everything alright? Are you alright?”

Furihata blinks. “Um.”

“And don’t lie to us, Furihata,” Hyūga tells him sternly.

“Yeah, let us help,” Kawahara says, smiling blindingly.

 _You can’t help me with this,_ Furihata thinks, and an almost blinding panic engulfs him. _You will die if you help me with this._

Furihata is tired of burying the people he cares about. He is tired of burying ashes, and lighting candles, and kneeling in front of photos of frozen smiles. He is tired of grief. He is tired of pain. He is tired of memories tainted by blood and death.

Furihata closes his eyes and gives them a tight-lipped smile. “I’m fine, guys—,”

“Furihata-kun.”

Furihata takes a long, shuddering breath, and looks at Kuroko. There is a question gleaming in the shadow’s eyes, and Furihata nods. If he told Seirin what was going on, Furihata isn’t sure he’d be able to stop.

“Furihata-kun and Kise-kun were attacked a few days ago,” Kuroko explains quietly. “It was an assassin, probably someone from the Academy.”

The gym is silent for a split second, a miniscule sliver of peace, before it erupts into chaos.

“ _Attacked?”_ Riko says, her voice bouncing off the gym walls.

Kawahara and Fukuda flutter around Furihata with a nervous air.

“Are you okay?” asks Kawahara right as Fukuda questions, “How are you doing?”

“Furihata,” Izuki says, “Where are you staying?”

Kagami turns to Kuroko. “You knew about this?” he accuses. “Why didn’t you say anything? Someone’s—,”

“Furihata-kun did not wish to worry you all with his troubles,” Kuroko explains. His voice is clear and coherent above the chaos of the basketball team. “For the past few days, I have been his shadow. Momoi-san also placed a tracking device onto his phone—,”

“What?” Furihata snaps, straightening. _“She did what?”_

“—and while I understand I may not look like much,” Kuroko continues over Furihata’s protests. “I am an assassin. I am more than capable of handling any threat coming Furihata-kun’s way.” Then, a brief respite from the serious air in the gym, Kuroko raises his arms and says, flatly, “I mean, look at these guns.”

“What guns?” Riko gripes.

Kagami sputters and shouts, _“You don’t have any!”_

Furihata gives his phone a distasteful glance and sighs. “Anyway, I’m _fine,”_ he assures them and, without thinking, admits, “I’m used to it anyway.”

Kuroko’s face darkens.

 _“USED TO IT?”_ Riko shrieks, right as Kiyoshi thunders, _“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, FURIHATA?”_

Kawahara and Fukuda look at him with horrified expressions. “Is that why you look nothing like your guardian?” Fukuda asks him.

Kawahara swallows. “And…and why you have those scars?”

Furihata closes his eyes. There are many things he wishes to say, many things he wants them to know, but, like always, Furihata swallows the words, and says, “The people I’ve lived with in the past—they weren’t nice.”

A half-truth, and a half-lie.

As he watches their expressions, horror dawning in their eyes, guilt sinks sharp teeth into his bones. Furihata is a horrible person, and a coward, but he cannot shape the words he wishes to say. There is a time and a place for everything, he reminds himself as Seirin forms a protective huddle around him. This is not that time.

Not yet, at least. Not when he has too much to lose, and too little to gain.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Kuroko no Basuke | The Basketball Which Kuroko Plays. It belongs to Fujimaki Tadatoshi. This is for entertainment purposes only. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!

Furihata receives the email when Riko proposes a training camp after the Winter Cup tournament. He reads it during a short break, taking care to make sure Kuroko is nowhere near him when he opens it. It is from someone he has known his entire life, someone he trusts with his life.

 _Furihata,_ the email reads. _I got the blueprints and map of your neighborhood for you. Dunno what the hell you need this for though but I’m not asking. Attached, also, are the profiles of Academy alumni in the last ten years. Again, don’t wanna know. But if I end up attending your funeral, I’m gonna be fucking pissed._

_—Tamer_

Furihata smiles.

(and a demon continues to slowly awaken.)

“Who’s that?” Kiyoshi questions as he closes his email app. “A girl?”

Across the gym, Kawahara yelps, “You have a _girlfriend,_ Furi?!”

Furihata sighs, but at least he is not being accused of dating Kise. “I am not talking to a girl,” he explains, with the patient of a saint over Kawahara’s laments of being the Only Single Member of the team, “and I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Ah,” Kiyoshi smiles, “my mistake, Furi.”

“Who was it, though?” Riko insists.

Furihata swallows another sigh. Ever since the attack, Seirin has only grown more protective over their “obliviously naïve” (their words, not his) point guard. “An old friend,” Furihata says.

His teammates pry for more information, but Furihata remains tightlipped on the subject. He will not tell them. He doesn’t think he will ever tell them about his past, and his scars, and the demons crawling under his skin. He has said too much already.

*

Furihata sees Murasakibara Atsushi long before the giant of a teen notices him. Furihata sighs, and wonders if he were cursed recently to bump into a Miracle whenever he decided to leave his apartment. Murasakibara, on that note, is the only Miracle he hasn’t met on a personal level.

“Oh,” the purple-haired teen says when he bumps into him on accident. Furihata is used to being jostled around by large crowds; sometimes it happens on sparsely crowded streets. He is unnoticeable in a quiet way, unlike Kuroko, who was born with a low presence. “Sorry, I didn’t see you.”

 _You’re not the only one,_ he thinks, but says, “It’s alright, I’m fine.”

Murasakibara peers at him, an inquisitive glint in his eyes. “Ah,” he says after a moment of pensive silence, “You’re Furi-chin, right?”

Furihata blinks.

“Aka-chin talks about you sometimes,” he continues in a drawling, almost bored, manner. “So does Ki-chin, and Sa-chin, and Mido-chin, and Kuro-chin,” then, as an afterthought, he adds, “Mine-chin calls you a chihuahua.”

“That’s…that’s good to know,” Furihata manages to say, but he is quietly puzzled at the fact that Akashi speaks to others about him. He doesn’t know what about, for they barely communicate with one another except with random emails here and there about his wellbeing ever since he had been targeted by that assassin.

On that note, Furihata had never disclosed his email to Akashi. He is not sure he wants to know where the other teen got his information.

“You attend Yōsen, right?” he asks the other. “What’re you doing in Tokyo?”

“My favorite candy store had a sale,” Murasakibara says, and pulls a box of pocky out of his pocket. “Muro-chin and I took the train here.”

Furihata blinks. The only person he sees is Murasakibara. “Who is Muro-chin?”

“Eh?” Murasakibara looks puzzled. “Muro-chin was right here a minute ago—oh,” he looks behind him, and Furihata spots a dark-haired teen leaning against a pole, their attention stolen by their phone. They’re turned around, so all Furihata sees is their back and silhouette. It is very familiar to someone he once knew, and his breath catches in his throat. “There he is.”

Furihata swallows the memories of a boy they all called Astral (his love for the stars and mythology knew no bounds), and asks, “Is he a teammate of yours?”

“Yes,” Murasakibara replies, and then swallows another bite of food. “He’s also my boyfriend.”

“Oh, that’s sweet,” Furihata says, a little awkwardly. He could care less about who other people want to date, but he has zero experience with relationships. People died quickly, suddenly, and it was always dangerous to give your heart to another in his world. “I’ve never dated anyone before, but I wish you the best.”

Murasakibara pats his head. “You’re a nice person, Furi-chin. Interesting, too.”

Furihata thinks this is Murasakibara’s way of saying he does not see him as a threat to Unit Miracle.

_You seem to be many things, Kōki_ _—perplexing, quiet, normal, but you are not a threat._

Akashi’s words float in his head, but he blinks them away in favor of paying attention to the Miracle in front of him. Murasakibara stares at him, the emotions in his eyes unreadable, and Furihata tilts his head in confusion.

“Murasakibara-san?”

“You’re pretty, in that quiet and unobtrusive way,” Murasakibara tells him and, after taking another bite of his pocky, adds, “Muro-chin is prettier, though.”

Furihata doesn’t know how to reply to that. He has never been called pretty, or attractive, or adorable, or any other nice adjective that describes someone’s looks before. He is too quiet to be noticeable by others. He blends into the background to survive, and paints a picture of a plain, oblivious teenager whose only worry is Monday’s math test.

No one notices him—but it seems like the Generation of Miracles are the exception to this fact of life.

*

_“You’re alive!”_

Furihata stumbles as he’s immediately tackled by a group of blondes and brunets upon entering Kise’s house. Within moments, he’s passed along family members and hugged and fussed over, but he doesn’t feel suffocated. Despite not being a Kise by blood or name, despite having met them for the first time only a few short months ago, he’s treated as an honorary member, and it makes his insides squish together in a happy way.

It has been a long time since he’s felt such contentment, surrounded by other people.

“Oh, when I heard about that assassin, I swear my heart stopped,” Kise’s mother, Haruka, holds his face between her hands. “I was so worried about you and Ryō-chan.”

“Are you still living with the Midorima’s?” Kise’s father, Takaya, questions him, eyebrows pinched together in concern. “Are they treating you right? Is there any tension?”

Furihata blinks at the questions. “Um, the Midorima family is fine,” he assures the harried-looking adults. “And they treat me well.”

“If anything, they treat Furihatacchi _too_ well,” Kise adds, jokingly yet serious at the same time, and looks at Furihata. “I think Midorimacchi’s parents want to adopt you.”

Furihata doesn’t know what to think of that, so he huffs a quiet, nervous laugh. He wants to dig a nice hole to crawl in when Satomi asks, “Why? Are Furi-tan’s parents always busy or something?”

Kise says nothing and, instead, stares at Furihata. There is a question in his eyes, and Furihata understands that the teen will give him a way out of the conversation if he wished it. As he considers the words to say, he realizes that everyone is waiting for him to speak.

“I don’t live with my parents, Satomi-san,” Furihata says, finally, but chooses his words very, very carefully as he sees realization dawning on their faces. “And, um, well, my guardian—,”

“Is a negligent piece of shit who I really, _really,_ want to have a chat with,” Kise finishes, with an innocent smile on his lips. “I won’t do anything illegal, don’t worry.”

 _Bullshit_. Furihata has the strong feeling that Kise would gouge out his guardian’s eyes when they meet (and he has no doubt that they will, given Kise’s proclivity for breaking into his apartment at odd hours of the day).

“Oh?” Satomi says, an odd look crossing her face. “Negligent, you say?”

Furihata does not want to have this conversation. He knows where this will lead.

“Yup,” Kise says, rather enthusiastically. He has many feelings about the absence of Furihata’s guardian. “Never there, always at work, only giving Furihatacchi a card for groceries and other things—we don’t even know where they are right now, do we, Furihatacchi? They just up and left him _alone,_ with only a note saying they’d be back before fall!”

Mutters and exclamations ripple through the crowd of Kise’s family.

Furihata sighs, and Kise’s mother, horrified, says, “My goodness, you—are you hungry, Furi-chan? Do you have enough to eat? Are you eating enough?”

“I’m eating enough,” Furihata tells her, right as Kise exclaims, “No, he doesn’t! _Furihatacchi,_ you only have an _apple_ in your fridge—and it’s rotted!”

“I’m used to not having enough food, Kise-kun, so I’m _fine_ ,” Furihata says, exasperated, suddenly exhausted, and hollow, and irritated at the concern they display for someone they barely know, barely understand. He is not used to this level of concern. He is used to living in the peripherals of everyone else’s life, unseen, unheard, unneeded.

The silence is sudden, and Furihata’s stomach sinks underneath the ground. _Ah,_ he thinks in the sharp quiet, realizing his mistake, _I should not have said that._

_*_

After a three-course meal was shoved down his throat (literally, almost, Kise, Satomi, and Yuzuru, Kise’s other sister, refused to let him leave the table without polishing his plate), Furihata relaxes in the designated game room with the other younger members of Kise’s family, which consists of mostly teens and young adults. Kise’s youngest relative is Sachiko, who is fourteen, and in her last year of middle school. Board games were pulled out, and video game systems were turned on, and, throughout the chaos of game suggestions and who-goes-first, Furihata made himself comfortable on one of the many armchairs littered about the room.

The adults aren’t in the room, but Furihata hears their dark murmurs over his “situation” from the kitchen.

Furihata knows he’s being observed by those in the room. He knows Kise is watching his expressions, listening to his thoughts (he cannot control that, Furihata knows, but it still makes his skin crawl a little, knowing there is one more person who knows of the past that continues to haunt his every breath).

After an hour or so of watching competitive relatives’ snark and trash-talk one another on Rainbow Road, Furihata quietly makes his way to their back porch. He sits, lightly swings his legs, and sighs as he breathes in the air. Winter has grasped Japan almost possessively, but it doesn’t bother Furihata. The cold is a pitiful enemy in comparison to everything else he’s been through.

“Mind if I join you, Furihata-kun?” Kise Masayuki, the captain who helped liberate those in the Academy, asks, already taking a seat next to Furihata.

“I don’t mind,” Furihata says, and, when Masayuki covers his shoulders with a shawl, murmurs, “thank you,” underneath his breath.

Masayuki doesn’t speak, and neither does Furihata. They sit in comfortable silence. “You’ve caused a bit of a fuss, you know,” Masayuki tells him. “What with that guardian of yours.”

Furihata hums.

“Since no one seems to be asking what you think of all this,” Masayuki continues, nonplussed by Furihata’s silence, “do you want to live with someone else?”

“No,” Furihata replies, without pause.

Masayuki arches an eyebrow. “Why?” and then, quieter: “Do you think you don’t deserve a better guardian?”

Furihata worries his bottom lip, and wonders on how to word this properly.

There are only two things his guardian has given him: his name, and his freedom. Furihata is very reluctant to leave his guardian, and to give up those things, when all he once knew was the inevitability of death. He does not like to think of what his life was like Before—before the Miracles, before his guardian, before Seirin—, and he is very tired of things being cruelly ripped away from him too soon, too fast.

Masayuki waits, patient, for him to gather his whirlwind of thoughts.

“Maybe,” he says, finally.

“Why do you think that?”

Furihata draws his knees to his chest. “I kill everyone that I get close to, Masayuki-san,” he explains. His heart rattles in his chest. “People who get to know me end up dead sooner or later. They _die_ , and I—,” he swallows the ball in his throat, and closes his eyes. He shivers, but they both know it isn’t from the wind. “I am tired of constantly burying corpses, Masayuki-san.”

Masayuki quiets, pondering on the right words to say. Furihata waits. He is always, always waiting. “I am terribly sorry for the things you’ve gone through, Furihata-kun,” the man says, and settles a warm hand on his shoulder, which prompts Furihata to look at him. Masayuki has the same eyes as Kise, strong and gentle, and kind. “But that does not mean you do not deserve to be with someone who cares for you.”

“Masayuki-san, you’re not getting it,” Furihata says, trying to make the man understand his words. “I am poison,” he settles on. “I am _death_ , Masayuki-san—,”

“Furihata-kun, I do not know who told you this, but you _are not_ —,”

“They’re all gone,” Furihata whispers, hollow and aching, grieving and drowning. “Every single one of them.”

Vision, who left a trail of red in Kyoto. Mushroom, slaughtered in his own living room. Pitcher, who came home in a body bag. Astral, who went to America and never came back. Sun, who disappeared in the Ishikawa Prefecture. Glutton, who—

Furihata chokes on a sob.

He does not like to remember the tragedy that befell Glutton.

“I am the only one left.”

Before he can piece himself back together, Masayuki pulls him into a hug. He tenses, puzzled, unfamiliar with this sort of contact. Glutton hugged him all the time when he was alive, and so did Pitcher, and Vision, but they have all been gone for years now. He cannot remember the warmth of their touches anymore. Yet he finds himself relaxing in the embrace, hiding his face in Masayuki’s jacket so the little tears he sheds go unnoticed.

(he does not miss the looks Masayuki throws at Haruka and Takaya over his head, nor does he miss the way Kise quietly leaves the back porch either. It is easier, however, to pretend that he did.)

Masayuki smells a little bit like gunpowder, but there is a strong scent of vanilla, and cinnamon, like he had been baking just before he came for dinner. His heart beats in tune with Furihata’s. He smells like safety, Furihata thinks. He smells like comfort, like warm nights next to the fireplace, hot chocolate in mugs, like an old book you always reread. He smells like _home_ —

Furihata shoves those thoughts away.

They are very dangerous for someone like him.

*

“We’ll talk more later, okay, kiddo?” Masayuki promises him when Midorima’s father picks him up. The man ruffles his hair, and Furihata is so stunned by the fatherly gesture he cannot move for a full minute. “See you around.”

Haruka hugs him. “Stay out of trouble, okay, Furi-chan?”

“What she said,” Satomi tells him, and looks at Kise. “Keep an eye on him, Ryōta.”

Kise sniffs, imitating Akashi’s imperious stance. “Always.”

When Furihata shuffles into the car, Midorima’s father smiles at him through the rearview mirror. “Had fun?”

Furihata is surprised at the warmth pooling in the pit of his stomach when he admits, “Yeah, I really did.”

*

 _Yell your goal to the world,_ Riko had told them. Furihata had asked for a girlfriend, creating the façade of a regular, normal teenage boy. Furihata is many things, and normal isn’t one of them. He had not said his goal aloud. It was too intimate, and it revealed the secrets he held underneath his skin. Furihata’s goal is not as simple as becoming number one in Japan. _What is your real goal?_ She asked him once they were kicked off the roof.

 _Live,_ Furihata thinks, staring down at the blueprints he subtly printed from the library’s printer, staring at the world he does not wish to return to but will if it means he will keep those he cares about safe. _I want to live._

*

The weeks blend together, and Furihata breathes through aching lungs. His guardian returned to Japan, and they reentered their apartment as it was cleared for their safety. Furihata noticed the increase in disguised soldiers around the neighborhood, but, as always, stayed quiet. His guardian says nothing about the previous events, about the threats, and returns to a regular routine of ignoring and avoiding Furihata.

Furihata could care less.

Kise continues to break into his apartment with bags of take-out, and continues to drag him to his house for Weekly Family Dinner (miraculously, he has not seen his guardian yet). He doesn’t mind those dinners. He can freely admit that he feels safe and comfortable with Kise’s family. Furihata has not felt safe in quite some time.

Midorima tells him his daily fortune from Oha-Asa through text, Takao continues to hound him about the group chat and other things (he still has not said hi to anyone nor has he figured out how to mute the chat), and Kuroko is still a shadow. Peculiarly, though, slowly, Akashi starts to text him about his day. He still calls him Kōki, so Furihata continues to call him Seijūrō in retaliation, and he thinks the redhead finds his defiant behavior amusing. Sometimes, they discuss politics. Sometimes, they talk about classical and modern literature. Other days, they talk about their favorite things. Once, Akashi tells him of his horse, Yukimaru, and Furihata is quietly impressed at the warmth and passion in his voice. They rarely talk about basketball.

Furihata, however, still does not remember giving Akashi his phone number.

The Winter Cup rears its head, and Furihata finds himself underneath the heavy, quietly disapproving, gaze of Akashi Seijūrō, who had previously ordered him to leave the “meeting of Miracles”. Furihata stayed put, ignoring the order and Akashi’s glowing eyes.

Kuroko, despite being shorter, stands protectively by Furihata’s side, who had trailed after the teen per Coach’s orders. Furihata would’ve preferred someone else to go, like Kagami or Kiyoshi, because he despised attention. Attention meant pain in Furihata’s world. In the end, attention switches to Kagami, who Akashi nearly blinds with a pair of scissors (“my lucky item!” Midorima squawks in the background), and Furihata is an afterthought once again.

The competition begins, and the basketball court resembles a battleground.

The day before the final game of the Winter Cup, Kuroko sits them down in Kagami’s apartment. The teen seldom speaks of Teikō, but the team has a gist of the horror he went through. “There is something I must tell you,” he says, “About the Academy.”

There are two people living in Akashi Seijūrō, Kuroko explains, a byproduct of the trauma they’d gone through in the Academy. One Akashi has two red eyes, and the other has one red and one gold. One is a kind king, the other, a cruel emperor. Kuroko wants to save them both.

Seirin is the champion of the Winter Cup. Akashi has two red eyes instead of one. Furihata continues to fade.

He sees Akashi for the third time when it’s Kuroko’s birthday. He opens the door for the Miracles, and he lets them inside Kagami’s apartment, which is teeming with basketball players and friends. When the colorful bunch of assassins greets him, there are a few new nicknames. “Kou-chan,” is Momoi’s; “Furi-chin,” is Murasakibara’s; a simple “Furi,” belongs to Aomine (which was better than the previous chihuahua); and Kise continues to call him Furihatacchi. Akashi is the only one who calls him “Furihata,” but it sounds like a nickname from his lips.

“Um,” Furihata blinks at Kuroko. “What.”

There is a smile on Kuroko’s lips. “You’ve gained the Miracles respect, Furihata-kun.”

“How,” Furihata says. “I haven’t done anything.”

Momoi beams at him. “Of course, you did, Kou-chan! You stood up to Akashi-kun.” Her eyes are faraway, lost in memories. “The only one who’s done that is Tetsu-kun.”

Furihata blinks. He does not think she is referring to their final match, when Furihata stood his ground against the impressive, oppressive aura Akashi produced on the basketball court.

There is a story behind Momoi’s eyes, and he isn’t sure if he is ready to know it.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Kuroko no Basuke | The Basketball Which Kuroko Plays. It belongs to its’ mangaka, Fujimaki Tadatoshi. This is for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!! Sorry for the late update, I've been swamped with midterms.

A week after Kuroko’s birthday, the realization hits Furihata as he swallows a small breakfast of miso soup. He has forgotten his own birthday. He checks the calendar through an app on his phone, and sees that he has been sixteen for two months. He finishes his miso soup, and decides he can treat himself to that new manga serialization Izuki raves about during practice.

The store is in Ikebukuro, a short distance via train, and Furihata reaches the city by the time lunch rush hits.

He finds Hayama Kōtarō in the shōjo aisle. The excitable teen brightens when his eyes land on Furihata’s.

“Hey, there,” he chirps over an armful of manga. “Furihata, right?”

Furihata blinks, taken aback. He nods, eyeing the older teen. No one remembered Furihata’s name, much less his face. He was forgettable, an afterthought. He drifted from people’s memories, and he never returned to them.

(The Miracles, of course, are an exception. Furihata thinks they will always be.)

He remembers his manners, though, and bows politely. “H-hello, Hayama-senpai.”

Hayama laughs and gives Furihata a pat on the back. Furihata stumbles. “No need for the senpai, Furihata! Ooh, can I call you Kō?”

Hayama stares at him with wide, pleading eyes.

“Sure,” Furihata says.

 Hayama unleashes an excited whoop, and almost drops the books in his hand from his fist pump. “Great,” he grins, before his eyes widen even more. Furihata was unaware such a feat was possible. “You like manga, Kō? What kind of genre? Mystery, right? Or are you more of a shōnen guy? You look like you’d like shōnen jump, actually—,”

Furihata blinks at the barrage of questions the second-year throws at him amidst amiable chatter. “Um,” Furihata says. “I’m just looking for this m-manga my senpai talks about so much.”

Hayama pauses. “What manga is it? Do you know?”

The name of the serialization escapes him. “It’s a mystery one,” Furihata tells him. “Um. I think it has something to do with A.I.’s and, uh, guns?”

“Ooh, I know that one,” Hayama seems to vibrate in place. “I’ll show you—it’s over here. Hey, tell your senpai they have great taste, yeah?”

“O-okay,” Furihata mutters and picks up four volumes of the manga. As he stands there, he decides he’ll also buy himself a gift card for the store. “Th-thank you, uh, Hayama-san.”

“Nope,” Hayama says, popping the “p”. “Call me Kōtarō! Say it with me—Kō. Ta. Rō.”

Behind Furihata, a boy laughs and says, “Kōta-chan, stop pestering Seirin’s first year.” Mibuchi Reo gives Furihata a near blinding smile. “Hello,” he greets. “You’re Kou-chan, right? Can I call you that? Kō-chan?”

Furihata feels overwhelmed in the presence of two older players. Players he helped defeat. “Uh,” Furihata says, “Th-that’s fine.”

Mibuchi’s grin widens. Again, Furihata thought such a thing impossible before. “You’re adorable,” the teen coos. By the way his fingers twitch at his side, Furihata is certain the man wants to pinch his cheeks. “Call me Reo-nii!”

Furihata blinks. “Um. Okay.”

“Repeat it,” Mibuchi says, his eyes firm. “Reo-nii.”

Furihata stumbles but he says, “R-Reo-nii.”

“What,” says another voice, this one silky and dark. “Are you two doing?”

“Ah,” Mibuchi brightens. “Sei-chan!”

Hayama grins. “I thought you were with Eikichi?”

Akashi Seijūrō sniffs, looking as imperious and kingly as ever. “I’ve better things to do than watch Nebuya swallow his food whole.” His red eyes flicks towards Furihata, and the teen smiles. “Ah, hello, Furihata-kun.”

If there is a hole in the ground, Furihata would gladly crawl in it. “U-Um, hello,” Furihata greets. The last time he’d seen Akashi was during Kuroko’s party, and the redhead seemed more stable than before. There were no scissors in his hands, no domineering gleam in gold irises. He can’t help but tease, “So it’s Furihata-kun, now, huh?”

Akashi’s lips tilt in amusement. “I’m afraid so.”

Mibuchi and Hayama look at one another, puzzled at their interaction.

“Anyway,” Furihata says, “What are you guys doing in Ikebukuro?”

“Shopping,” Mibuchi chirps.

“Eating, in Eikichi’s case,” Hayama adds.

“I had a meeting previously,” Akashi explains. “The others decided to tag along.”

Mibuchi eyes the manga in his arms. “You like manga, Kō-chan?”

“I’ve never really had the chance,” Furihata says, “I figured I’d treat myself.” 

“Oh? How sweet,” Mibuchi smiles. “Well, as the champion of the Winter Cup, I’d say you deserve it!”

Furihata smiles. “Thanks.”

*

He does not know how the starting members of Rakuzan’s basketball team, plus Mayuzumi, ended up in his apartment. Once Rakuzan stepped a foot through his front door, the quiet scattered to places unknown. Hayama and Nebuya are the loudest of the five, though they didn’t hold a candle to Mibuchi whenever he was excited or scolding someone. Mayuzumi was content to observe in silence, secluded from the whirlwind of the Uncrowned Generals.

“Where’s your parents?” Mibuchi asks him, innocently.

Furihata hides his wince. Why must everyone assume he lives with a mother and father. “I live with my guardian, Mibuchi-san.”

“Where’s your guardian?” he amends.

“I don’t really see my guardian that much.”

Akashi’s eyebrows pinch together in concern. “Do you not get along with them?”

“Not really,” Furihata admits, quietly. “But…I don’t mind.”

The teens frown. Furihata didn’t mind the empty apartment. He didn’t mind the silence. The people he connected with over the years always died too soon, too early, plucked away from Furihata’s grasp before he even had the chance to say goodbye. In the beginning, Furihata was alone. He always assumed he’d be alone in the end, too.

“No, it’s not,” Mibuchi says.

Furihata shrugs. “I’m used to being alone.”

Mibuchi chews on his lip, eyes displaying his conflicted emotions.

“Furihata-kun,” Akashi says, staring down at the unopened box on his kitchen table. “Why is there a birthday cake on your table?”

Without batting an eye, Furihata says, “Oh, it’s for me.”

There is a beat of silence, and then Mibuchi and Hayama wail, “It’s your _birthday?!”_

“Ah, no,” Furihata smiles sheepishly. “I, kind of, um, forgot my birthday, so, uh, I guess since everything’s calmed down, I’m giving myself a little celebration.”

The Rakuzan starting members stare in at him. Furihata stares back.

“Furihata, when _is_ your birthday?” Mayuzumi asks.

“November 8th.”

“Wait, you forgot your birthday?” Nebuya asks, a little incredulous and perplexed. “How?”

“I’ve never really celebrated my birthday before,” Furihata admits. “So, it is easy for me to forget about it until a few months after, like today.”

Mibuchi’s voice is a little strangled, a little raspy, when he echoes, “You’ve never had a birthday party before?”

Furihata shakes his head.

“—perfect, thank you very much.” Akashi ends the call with a satisfied smile. “The cake will be done in two hours.”

Furihata blinks. “What.”

Mayuzumi snorts at the dumbfounded look on Furihata’s face. “Get used to it.”

“Oh, oh, what’s your guardian’s name, Kō?” Hayama asks.

 Furihata’s throat closes, and something must’ve shown on his face because Hayama’s brightness seemed to dim.

“That’s fine,” the teen says, “They can tell us themselves during the party!”

Furihata stares at Hayama’s wide smile. “What.”

“We’re throwing you a birthday party,” Mibuchi smiles, sweet and kind, and all protests die on Furihata’s lips. “Alright, then—Ei-chan, Kōta-chan, to the store!”

“Yes, sir!” Hayama salutes Mibuchi.

Nebuya rises to his feet languidly. “What’s the list?”

Mibuchi starts listing items Furihata hasn’t really heard of before—streamers, party hats, banners, balloons. “The works,” he finishes. “You boys know what to do!”

Furihata sighs. “Just—make sure it’s small, okay? I…I don’t really like much noise.”

Akashi nods. “Do not worry, Furihata-kun, we will respect your wishes.”

Within minutes, his living room is decorated in banners, and streamers, and balloons. He’s ushered to sit down, since everyone refuses to let him work on anything.

The cake Akashi ordered is delivered two hours later, and it is a beautiful three tier red velvet with white icing. There are little flowers decorating the edges of the tiers, and on the top tier _happy birthday_ is in an elegant script. The cake is beautiful, and Furihata would bet on his life it tastes otherworldly as well. As he watches the cake, and watches the others set up the rest of the decorations, Furihata thinks he’s going to start crying.

For his entire life, all Furihata has known is cruelty. Cruelty, and the inevitability of death. There was no kindness. There was no empathy. Those emotions were the cause of many deaths. It wasn’t until he was rescued from the hell he called home that he experienced kindness. Kindness, to Furihata, was an abstract theory before he attended Seirin High.

“Furihata-kun,” Akashi says, grasping his attention. “Are you alright?”

Furihata blinks away the tears gathering in his eyes. “Yes, Yes, I’m fine,” he assures the other, but Akashi still frowns, unconvinced. “I—,” Furihata swallows, his throat closing, as he looks at the kindness surrounding him. “Thank you,” he whispers.

Akashi smiles, and his face softens. “It is no problem, Furihata-kun.”

“Yeah,” Hayama cheers, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Anything for a friend!”

_Friend._

Furihata beams, but he knows they have no idea how much that word means to someone like him. Kise is probably the only one that does, and that is only because of the things he’s gleamed from his thoughts.

Although childish, Furihata is in good spirits when he brings out one of his guardians’ old board games. The name is weird, and he has no idea what it’s even about, but he’s never played before. Mayuzumi and Akashi are the first to notice the rectangular box in his hands.

“How cliché,” Mayuzumi says, but his tone is not harsh. “Man, I haven’t played Monopoly in ages.”

Furihata shrugs and says, “I’ve never played board games before.”

Mibuchi and Hayama rear back, like they were struck, and the frown on Akashi’s face tightens. His apartment fills with tension. _“Never played_ —,” Hayama spits out. “What, did you live in a _prison_?”

Furihata blinks. He never thought of that room as a prison, but he supposes it could count as one. It was the only home he ever had, after all. “Yeah,” Furihata says after a moment of thought. “I was.”

Mayuzumi snaps his book shut. “ _What_.”

“Furihata-kun,” Akashi says, his voice almost a purr. _“Explain.”_

Furihata purses his lips as he takes out the pieces for the board game. He doesn’t understand why he is saying these things, why he is discussing snippets of his past, things he swore he would keep hidden and locked away, but his chest is heavy with the things he doesn’t say.

(He is drowning in the secrets of his blood. He is choking on the words he does not say.)

“I lived with my kidnappers until I was rescued recently,” Furihata explains, and suddenly feels like a deadweight was lifted off his chest.

*

The thing is this: Furihata is an orphan.

His parents were murdered when he was two years old, and he cannot remember their faces or their names. He remembers that day very well, however. There was blood, and pain, and grief. He was on the living room couch, unremarkable and forgotten even at that young age, until one of the murderers looked at him.

“They’ve a kid,” they said. “What do we do with him?”

The other one eyed Furihata. “Let’s take him.”

He was fourteen when he was rescued.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when the only thing Furihata can hear is his breathing and his guardians’ snores from down the hall, he wishes the man said _kill him_ instead. Furihata was never supposed to live this long. He was supposed to die young. He was never meant to see his fifteenth birthday. But he lives, and he breathes, and he walks through the grief and agony settling in the middle of his chest.

*

“Kidnappers?” Mayuzumi whispers.

Mibuchi, eyes wide with horror, exclaims, “You were _kidnapped?”_

Furihata nods, and that is all he says on the topic. He blinks down at the board game, with its strange figureheads and notecards, and says, “Um. How do you play this game?”

“We’ll teach you,” Nebuya says, “It’s a simple but brutal game.”

Furihata gives the game a dubious look. It doesn’t sound like a fun game. “What’s…it about?”

Akashi’s smile is a little dark, and a little terrifying, when he says, “Money.”

*

Halfway through their first round of Monopoly, Furihata’s plans for a quiet celebration is thrown out the window when Kise storms through his front door, a mountain of wrapped presents in his hands, with Seirin and the rest of the Miracles a few steps behind him. Furihata sighs at the sight of his team decked out in party hats and favors, but the gesture is more fond than annoyed.

“ _Furi_ ,” Riko rounds on him. “How could you not tell us?!”

“Yeah, Furi,” Kagami frowns.

“Ne, ne, Kō-chan,” Hayama says, ignoring the newcomers, as does all of Rakuzan, more into their game. “I will literally make out with you for, like, an hour if you give me Boardwalk.”

Furihata turns tomato-red, as does quite a few of Seirin’s members at the suggestion. “U-Um.”

“Kōta-chan,” Mibuchi laughs. “You’re such a slut, oh my _god_.”

Akashi sits next to Furihata in a prim manner, as if he were holding court in Furihata’s living room, and sighs at their antics. “Stop harassing Furihata, Hayama,” he says – commands, really, “Or I’ll double your training.”

Hayama’s jaw drops. “S-S-Sei-chan, you can’t _do that!”_

“Tripled, then,” is the reply.

Hayama unleashes another wail. Furihata blinks, and sees actual tears falling from his eyes. “That’s an abuse of power as captain,” he cries.

Mibuchi snorts, and Akashi says a simple, “Quadrupled.”

Hayama whimpers. Furihata is half-amused, half-terrified, and a little impressed at the power Akashi wields.

“Mayuzumi,” Akashi says, “I believe you now owe me 30,000 yen.”

Mayuzumi sputters but hands over the colored bills.

“I told you,” Nebuya says, “this game is _brutal_.”

“I’d put you in a Boston crab hold if it weren’t your birthday party,” Riko tells Furihata, threateningly, and then she smiles and gives him a brief hug. “Happy birthday!”

“Ooh, is this Monopoly?” Takao questions, peering at the board game with interest.

“Yes,” Mibuchi replies.

“The game that ruins families,” Nebuya adds.

“I’m going bankrupt,” Mayuzumi says, “and we just _started_.”

Akashi sniffs, imperious. “Not my fault you are horrible at managing your money.”

The party commences without a hitch. For the next couple of hours, Furihata is surrounded by people he calls companions, and friends, as they joke about and play cheesy, traditional birthday games Furihata never had the chance to. He feels himself getting overwhelmed when Koganei produces a karaoke machine (from where, Furihata has no idea, and _doesn’t want to know_ ), and steps out into the hallway for a breather.

“Getting too much for you?” Akashi asks.

Furihata rests his head between his knees. “Just a little bit.”

There’s a brief pause of awkwardness, and then Akashi gently pats Furihata’s back. He can’t help but chuckle at the redhead’s awkward attempts at comfort, but he appreciates the gesture.

“Thank you,” he says.

“No problem.”

“No, I mean,” Furihata looks up and then gestures to the chaos that is his living room. “Thank you for all of that, you know? No one’s….no one’s…” Furihata swallows.

“I know,” Akashi says, and stops patting his back. His hand stays between Furihata’s shoulders, however, but Furihata doesn’t mind. Akashi’s warmth seeps through his clothes. The teen falls silent, a pensive look in his eyes.

Furihata cannot help himself when he asks, “What are you thinking about?”

“It is almost the anniversary,” Akashi says quietly. “Of the Fall.”

Furihata quiets.

“I cannot help but wonder,” he continues, “of where I would be right now, if things had gone awry? Would I still be in the Academy? Or at that base?”

When the Academy was shut down, there were hundreds of students who had nowhere to go. It was a common tactic for the Academy to target orphans, and runaways, and foster children on the DL. They went after kids no one would miss, and plied them with materialistic things and a sense of _belonging_ so that they would remain loyal.

After the Fall, all the students were from their experiences, and many didn’t have homes to return to, like the Miracles did. The government decided the child assassins would live on various JSDF bases until a willing, reputable home was found, or they recovered enough to function in proper society. Furihata knows there are still groups of students who have found neither.

When the clock strikes eight, his apartment starts to look less like a teenage madhouse and more like a graveyard as most leave for their homes before the train stops. As he toes on his shoes, Akashi gives him a smile, but Furihata can see the nervousness in his eyes.

“I would like to be your friend,” Akashi says after a moment. “If you’re agreeable.”

Furihata blinks once, twice, and agrees. He ends up sharing his contact information with Rakuzan, and Mibuchi wrangles out a promise of a nightly video call between them all, since they’re so far away from one another.

Soon, his apartment is quiet once again, and he finds himself missing the noise.

“That was fun, Furihatacchi,” Kise says, cutting another slice of that delicious cake. “I hope you know my family is gonna want to throw you another party,” he then informs after a few bites.

He laughs at Furihata’s quiet groan.

*

“Oh?” the boy says. “I forgot you lived here.”

 _Is it something I wear?_ Furihata thinks in dismay. _Is there an invisible sign above my head?_ All Furihata wants is one day, _one day_ , where he can leave his apartment and not be accosted by those connected with Unit Miracle.

Haizaki Shōgo isn’t a Miracle, however. He almost was, but then Kise came into the scene, and Haizaki became a part of Unit General. Unlike Unit Miracle, however, there is only one person in Haizaki’s Unit that made it to see their thirteenth birthday.

Furihata sighs when he sees Haizaki staring at him expectantly. “Can I help you?”

“You’ve been hanging around trouble, you know,” Haizaki tells him. “Ryōta is nothing but bad news.”

Under his breath, Furihata says, “ _You’re_ nothing but bad news,” but to Haizaki, he says, “I can make that decision myself, thanks.”

Haizaki shrugs, and then disappears into the throng of hungry shoppers beelining for the various food carts and shops. Furihata throws his trash away, and Haizaki hands him a milkshake a few minutes later.

“Um, Haizaki-kun, I already had a milkshake today—,”

“I don’t give a shit, so shut the fuck up.”

Furihata quiets and takes a sip. It’s strawberry. “So,” he says after a moment, “Why are you here?”

Haizaki quirks an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

Furihata takes another sip, and doesn’t rise to the bait. “Weren’t you that ‘flash of gray’ people kept discussing when referring to those assassins sent after the Miracles?”

“Well, not exactly,” Haizaki says, and then pauses. “How’d you know that?”

“I have my ways.”

Haizaki rolls his eyes. “My power is weird, and I ain’t explaining it, but I’m done trying to take those idiots out.”

“Why?” Furihata asks.

“Just because I find those fuckers annoying,” Haizaki spats, “doesn’t mean I want them _dead_.”

Furihata hums. “So…what do you want with me?”

Haizaki says nothing for a good minute, only stares at Furihata. Furihata stares back. He is not intimidated by someone who once tried to get drunk off of a root beer float.

“I’m leaving this shitty place,” Haizaki admits, a scowl on his face. “So, don’t you dare bother tracking me down. Do it, and I _will_ kill you.”

“Where are you going?”

“Not telling you,” Haizaki says and smiles, a little cruelly. “Looks like my ride is here. See you, nerd.”

A car stops by the curb, and Haizaki climbs in. Furihata catches a glimpse of black hair and an irritated scowl before the car tears around the block with a squeal of tires and dust. He blinks, perplexed at the interaction, and finishes the rest of his milkshake.

It almost tastes like a goodbye.

When he throws away his empty cup, he gathers his bags. He looks across the street and freezes. Staring right at him, a baseball cap over his eyes, is a ghost. 

Furihata’s whisper is swallowed by the noise of the lunch crowd.

*

Furihata slips into his bedroom, his bags spilling from his grip. For a minute, Furihata leans against his door and breathes. He grasps his bearings, breathing through trembling lips and aching lungs. His computer chimes with an incoming voice call, and Furihata takes another deep breath before plopping down in his desk chair.

He accepts the call and smiles as four faces appear on the screen. Mibuchi and Hayama are in Mibuchi’s room; Akashi, Mayuzumi, and Nebuya are in their own.

“Kō-chan,” Mibuchi greets.

Furihata smiles, ignoring how his lips continue to tremble, and says, “H-Hey guys.”

Akashi’s eyes narrow. “Furihata,” he says, voice as smooth as silk. “Are you alright?”

Furihata nods. “Yeah, Akashi-kun, I’m fine.”

 _I’m fine,_ Furihata thinks, _just trying to breathe._

Furihata has spent half his life visiting the shrines of his dead brothers. He has spent half his life grieving the bodies he never had the chance to bury. When he settled into his apartment, he had reached manageable levels of his grief—and then Astral looked at him through the crowded streets before disappearing again, and Furihata can’t remember what it felt like to breathe.

Mayuzumi looks unimpressed. “You look like you’ve been crying all day.”

 _Well,_ Furihata thinks, _he’s not wrong._

“Kō,” Hayama says, sweetly, and Furihata shudders. “Is someone bothering you?”

Mibuchi’s voice is sharp and biting. “Did someone _hurt you?”_

“Just so that you’re aware, Furihata,” Akashi says, and Furihata sees a flash of gold in red irises. There is a pleasant smile on the redheads’ lips, but there is a promise of retribution in his eyes. “I know how to make someone disappear, if needed.”

Nervous laughter escapes Furihata’s lips because he knows how serious Akashi is. He knows the body count of Unit Miracle, knows the blood on their hands, knows Akashi’s threat is a promise he will keep. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he assures them, and his smile is a little brighter, firmer. “I was just—seeing an old friend of mine.”

Akashi frowns. “Are you certain, Furihata?”

He nods. “Yes!” he then turns to Mibuchi and leans forward. “Now, Reo-nii, you had something to tell us?”

Mibuchi grins, wide and devious, and launches into his story. Furihata sits back in his chair and listens, and finds that the ache in his chest isn’t as overwhelming as before.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Kuroko no Basuke | The Basketball Which Kuroko Plays. It belongs to its’ mangaka, Fujimaki Tadatoshi. This is for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Sorry for taking so long to post this chapter, I've been under the weather for a while. Also, I'll be replying to last chapter's replies soon! Thank you for all your support! Hope you enjoy!

The weekend comes bright and early, and Akashi gives him a pleasant smile. “Good morning, Furihata.”

Furihata blinks. He thinks he’s still dreaming, still sleeping in his bed, because Akashi Seijūrō is standing in his doorway, wearing casual clothes and a smile that makes Furihata want to melt. He blinks again, but Akashi is still there. Still smiling. Still standing.

It is currently eight in the morning. His guardian has left for who-knows-where already.

“Um,” Furihata says. “Akashi-kun? What are you doing… _here_?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Akashi explains, “and I figured I’d visit.”

 _Bullshit,_ Furihata thinks to himself. Akashi lives in _Kyoto_ , what business does he have in Tokyo? His expression must convey his thoughts because Akashi chuckles. “The Miracles wished to have an impromptu meeting,” he continues to explain. “It’s in a few more hours, and I took the earliest train for my convenience.”

“Right,” Furihata says slowly, and then steps aside. “Well, um. Come in?”

“Thank you,” Akashi replies and steps inside with the grace of an emperor. “Is your guardian home?”

Furihata shakes his head. “No.”

Akashi hums.

Furihata closes his door, and thinks of how unprepared he is for this visit. His hair is mussed from a restless night, he’s wearing the pajamas he’s owned since he was twelve (they have teddy bears and hearts on them), he has bunny-eared house slippers on his feet, and he’s fairly certain there’s drool dried on his chin. To contrast, Akashi looks well-put together in his black slacks, undershirt, and button-down shirt. The redhead doesn’t look like he’s about to have a meeting in Maji Burger. He looks like he’s about to participate in one of Kise’s photoshoots.

“U-Um, follow me,” Furihata says, stumbling over his sleep-addled limbs, and walks into his kitchen. Akashi follows and sits down at the table. “Want anything? Water? Tea? Juice?”

“Water is fine,” Akashi tells him.

Furihata soon slides a glass of water in his direction. He sits across from Akashi with his own glass of water, and finds that the silence between them isn’t uncomfortable. Rather, it’s a relaxing sort of quiet. He doesn’t feel anxious to fill the air with chatter, doesn’t feel like Akashi will resent him if he doesn’t speak at all.

Contrary to popular belief, Furihata is not terrified of Akashi. In fact, Furihata truthfully feels comfortable in the Miracles’ presence—sure, the entire Unit is terrifying as hell, but Furihata recognizes a kindred spirit in them. Furihata has personal experience with the cruelty of adults who had once sworn to keep him safe.

Furihata’s actual problem is anxiety. Sometimes, the anxiety is geared towards specific things—purchasing an item by himself, walking down the street by himself, being alone in general. Sometimes, though, the anxiety is completely random. Furihata could be speaking with a classmate about the homework, and he’d feel anxious. He could be eating candy, and anxiety would curl around his neck. He could be doing something as relaxing as yoga, and it would be cold in his stomach.

Yet Furihata finds his knees trembling whenever he is near a Miracle. His veins are drenched in ice. His lips quiver, and he stutters almost every word. Because of this, they give him space. Akashi stands, or sits, a respectable distance away from Furihata. Kise gauges his reactions to physical affection as he glomps him. Kuroko is perceptive to when he is getting overwhelmed by attention, deliberately saying a witty remark to Kagami so that the teen explodes and catches the attention of the rest of the team. They watch his reactions attentively, gauging how nervous he is to their presence.

Seirin thinks it’s because the Generation of Miracles are not only basketball prodigies, but they are also assassins, a fact most of the population is content to ignore. Furihata does not want to tell them it is because the Miracles are inconceivably attractive, and Furihata simply doesn’t know how to react around attractive people.

Although Seirin is a kind and warm team, Furihata is wary about telling them of his anxiety. They mean well, he knows, but he sees the way they sometimes treat Kuroko like he’s a glass doll, easily breakable, simply because he attended Teikō Academy for three years. Furihata’s stomach twists into knots at the thought of how Seirin would react if they discovered the secrets he has tried to hard to keep quiet.

“S-So, Akashi-kun,” Furihata says. “H-How are you doing?”

Akashi takes a sip of water. “I’m doing alright, I suppose,” he replies. “Although, I could be doing better.”

Furihata’s eyebrows pinch together in concern. “Um…if you want…to, um, talk or anything…I’ve been told that I’m a good listener?”

A hint of a smile is on Akashi’s face. “Thank you, Furihata.” The teen locks eyes with Furihata and asks, “And how have you been?”

“Better,” Furihata admits.

Although Furihata still wakes up in the middle of the night, terrified and sweating, from memories of his days in his captivity, from dreams of watching his brothers die in front of him, he does feel better. There is still a hole in his heart, but it does not threaten to engulf him whole anymore. He breathes easier now, knowing he is not alone in the world. He is not carrying the grief of six people anymore.

“Wonderful,” Akashi says. “And I’d like to extend that offer to you as well, Furihata.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Offer?”

“If you need to talk to someone, know that I’m here,” Akashi tells him, quietly. “We may not share the same experiences, but I’m certain we can share constructive advice to one another.”

 _Oh Akashi,_ Furihata thinks, _you have no idea how wrong you are._

Instead, he says, “Okay,” and swallows the sorrow rising in his throat. “I’ll help in any way I can!”

Akashi smiles, and Furihata finds he can’t control the warmth spreading across his face.

*

Furihata curls up on his couch a week later. The sports channel softly plays on the television as he reviews the upcoming training regime Riko pushed into his hands. The girl was confident he would be a great Point Guard, and Furihata finds himself getting excited at the prospect of being a starting member on the team. The commenters introduce the rules of the sport, Parkour, as a large crowd cheers in the background.

He’s pulled from his thoughts by a round of knocks on his front door. It plays a beat Furihata knows by heart: _tap ta-tap ta-tap tap tap_.

Furihata rips open his front door before he realizes he’s moving, and he stares into the eyes of a boy he thought was dead. Astral, it seems, has only got prettier with age, and he smiles widely, albeit sadly, at Furihata’s stupor.

“Harbinger,” Astral greets.

Furihata stares.

“May I come in?” he asks after a minute or so of silence.

Furihata nods, numbly, and closes the door behind him, remembers what it means to breathe, and sits Astral down in the living room. The hole in his chest gapes, like a maw ready to swallow him whole, and Furihata wants to cry.

He was three years old when he met Astral, and he was nine when Astral disappeared.

“How did you—,” Furihata begins but he stops, and swallows those words. “What did you—.” He stops, and he swallows those words too.

Astral’s eyes shine. “How am I alive?”

Furihata nods.

“You know Tamer went to America with me, right?” Astral began, waiting for Furihata’s nod, and continues, “Well, things went a bit—disastrous, I suppose.” He pauses, gathering his thoughts, and Furihata waits. “I was going to die,” he admits, “and then a woman saved us. Apparently, we were, sort of, dying on her back porch,” he adds, snorting.

Furihata cracks a small, amused smile at the sound of Astral’s laughter. He did not know it was possible to miss a sound so much.

“What was her name?” he asks. He wants to know the name of the woman who saved his brother. He’s going to send her a fruit basket. And he’s going to send Tamer coal (or something equally unpleasant) for not telling him—

“Alex Garcia.”

Furihata’s breath is caught in his throat. _I have a brother,_ Kagami had once told the team. _He and I, we met each other through Alex Garcia, who taught us all we know about basketball. He transferred to Yōsen, earlier in the year._

 _Ah, that’s Muro-chin,_ Murasakibara had said, munching on pocky.

Astral—Himuro Tatsuya watches him intently, as he realizes his brother had been right in front of him this entire time. 

“Oh,” Furihata blinks.

He doesn’t know what else to say. He does not know what to think. His eyes burn with unshed tears as he stares into the eyes of a comrade, a friend, a _brother_ , who he mourned ever since he was nine years old. Nine and hurting. Nine and aching. Nine and watching everyone he loved leave him for a place he couldn’t reach.

“I…I…”

Himuro waits, patient.

Furihata bursts in tears. Himuro makes a noise in the back of his throat as he pulls Furihata in for a hug. “I’m sorry,” Himuro whispers, hoarse and full of unspoken things. “I’m so _sorry._ I couldn’t go back—Tamer could—but they would have killed me.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” Furihata denies even though, deep down, he knows the truth.

“They would,” Himuro says. “They would have killed me, and they would have made you watch.”

Furihata knows this. He has watched many of his friends die, from their mistakes, from their wounds, for attempting to run away. Furihata learned to be impassive whenever this happened, because he knew his handlers would have used his emotions against him, or they would have made the dying child suffer even more.

Furihata says nothing for a while, and Himuro is content with the silence as well. He basks in the familiar warmth Astral provides before he pulls away, reluctantly, to wipe away his tears. With an amused smile, Himuro gives him a wad of tissues.

Furihata blows his nose. “Th-Thanks.”

“No problem, Harbinger,” Himuro says.

“It’s Furihata, now,” he replies. “Furihata Kōki.”

“Oh? _You’re_ Furi-chin?” Himuro says, utterly delighted. “No wonder you looked so familiar that day.”

Furihata sniffles.

“I really am sorry,” Himuro whispers.

Furihata pats his hand. “I know. We all had to do things we didn’t want in order to survive, so I don’t blame you, okay?”

Himuro sighs and says, a little wistfully, “You’re still as kind as ever, Furihata.”

Furihata snorts, and playfully shoves him. Himuro shoves him back. Before he knows it, they’re immersed in a shoving war that dissolves into a tickle war, which Furihata loses because he is ticklish _everywhere_.

“Okay, okay,” he yelps, breathless, “I give! _I give!”_

Himuro snickers. “I see I’m still the king of tickle wars.”

Furihata rolls his eyes and rights himself. “Hey, is…is Alex nice? You know, as a guardian?”

“Yeah,” Himuro says, a warm smile on his lips as he speaks. “Her childhood friend, who’s my adopted father, actually, is sweet, too. He was a little concerned when I wanted to come back to Japan, but I convinced him it was for the best.” Himuro then eyes him, and asks, “And what about you? I have not heard good things about this guardian of yours, Furihata.”

He sighs, and admits, “They’re probably true.”

Himuro’s scowl is very dark. “Has he hurt you? Touched you? Made you do anything—,”

“H-Himuro!” Furihata waves away the accusations. “No! They haven’t done any of those things! My guardian just…isn’t here. I’m left to my own devices.”

“What kind of guardian is that?” Himuro says.

“Not a good one, apparently,” Furihata attempts to joke.

“Not funny,” Himuro says, giving him a look. “If they do anything, tell me.”

It is Furihata’s turn to give Himuro a look. “I’m pretty sure you’ll gouge out their eyes like Kise-kun would.”

“Kise-kun? Oh, you mean Kise-chin,” Himuro says, and then grins, “Ah, yes, I would. I knew there was a reason the blond was my favorite Miracle, besides Atsushi of course.”

Furihata sighs, fond yet exasperated at the same time.

Himuro looks at the time, and pouts. “I have to go,” he says, “I’m meeting Atsushi at this bakery he wants to check out.”

Furihata bites his bottom lip. He is even more reluctant to let Himuro out of his sight, not when there was a chance he could disappear again.

His worry is all for naught when Himuro brightens. “You should come with me,” he says. “Atsushi would be delighted to see you again.”

“Um,” Furihata says, “If you’re sure.”

“I’m positive,” Himuro says. “It’s only down the street from your apartment, so it isn’t much of a walk, thankfully.”

The bakery is, indeed, a short walk away from his apartment. Murasakibara is easy to pick out from the weekend crowd, lumbering tall above everyone else. His purple hair is very distinct underneath the glint of the afternoon sun as well. There are a few people littering the front of the bakery; most are inside. When Himuro walks up to him, Murasakibara hands him a little bag of donuts.

“Here you go, Muro-chin,” he says, “I got your favorite.”

Himuro hums. “Thank you, Atsushi.”

Murasakibara then glances at him. “Furi-chin?”

“Hello, Murasakibara-kun,” Furihata smiles. “It’s nice to see you again.”

Murasakibara reaches over, and pats his head. Himuro laughs at the sight. “Atsushi,” he says, “You _do_ know Furihata-kun is our age, yes?”

“Eh? I know, but he’s so tiny, Muro-chin.”

Furihata chuckles. There’s no use getting offended, since almost everyone is tiny in comparison to Murasakibara. He breathes in the aroma of the bakery, and asks, “What kind of pastries do they have in there?”

“They have a mix of traditional and western desserts,” Murasakibara says, and then eyes Furihata appraisingly. “Do you like sweets, Furi-chin?”

“Yeah, I—,”

Tires screech on the gravel, shouts of confusion and alarm float in the air, and three men in black clothes leap towards Murasakibara. Seeing their intent, Murasakibara shoves Himuro way from him (he skids back and crashes into someone’s mailbox, wincing as his wrist twists in a way it shouldn’t), and then attempts to do the same to Furihata, who, without thinking, grabs a tight hold on Murasakibara.

One of them sticks a syringe of a strange liquid in Murasakibara’s arm, and his muscles relax. “Um,” one of them yelps, staring at Furihata with wide eyes, “what about—,”

“Take him,” the other hisses. “Knock him out!”

Furihata blacks out when his skin prickles from the needles’ bite. He wakes in flashes—when their kidnappers drive over a bumpy road, he briefly wakes when his forehead smacks against the floor of the trunk. When he wakes another time, he sees that Murasakibara’s eyes are open, but glassy, and his breaths are very shallow.

The third time he wakes, he is in a bedroom. His limbs ache, and his mind is foggy.  There’s a large bed tucked in the corner, a closet filled with sparse clothing, an antique vanity and dresser, and a soft, plush rug underneath his feet. For a moment, he is perplexed at his location, and then he sees Murasakibara’s slumped figure on the other side of the room.

Furihata counts to ten, even though he knows it has a very little effect, and takes careful breaths. He takes hesitant steps towards Murasakibara, and touches his shoulder. His eyes flutter open.

“Furi-chin?” Murasakibara murmurs.

“Yeah,” Furihata says once he remembers how to speak. “It’s me, Murasakibara-kun. Are you alright?”

Murasakibara sits up immediately, and observes the room they’re in. “Tsk, how complicated,” he says. “Looks like Sa-chin was right.”

“About what?” Furihata asks. He thinks _Sa-chin_ is Murasakibara’s nickname for Momoi, but he isn’t entirely certain.

“About there being another Academy,” Murasakibara scowls darkly, thunderously. “We had our suspicions, since a lot of the teachers managed to flee during the Fall,” he sighs, and continues, “but we had hoped we were wrong.”

A demon slithers under his skin, but Furihata smothers the urge. This is not the time, he tells himself. This is not the place. There is a cut on Murasakibara’s cheek, and blood drips from the wound. He looks unbothered, almost bored at their situation, but Furihata can see the deathly fury in his eyes.

“It’s going to be okay, Furi-chin,” he says, possibly mistaking his silence for fear, and, as gently as he could, pats Furihata’s head. “They won’t hurt you.”

Furihata swallows. His heart thuds in his chest. A demon tries to crawl out of his lungs. “You don’t know that,” he says, instead of what he really wants. Furihata never, ever says what he wants to say.

“I may be lazy, but as of right now, I am the most dangerous being in this facility, Furi-chin. I can crush a man’s skull without even trying,” Murasakibara admits, quietly, his gaze steely and cold and he stares at Furihata. _“They will not touch you.”_

Furihata falls silent. There is nothing more to be said, after all.

After a moment, Murasakibara says, “I can’t call you Furi-chin here. We use code names in the Academy.”

Furihata knows this.

Murasakibara does not know that he knows this.

“I am Shield,” he continues, and looks at him. “And you?”

The demon threatens to spill out of his mouth.

Furihata swallows and says, whispers, “Harbinger.”

Murasakibara smiles and nods, and Furihata knows that he does not understand what that name means to Furihata.

The door opens, and a woman stands in the threshold. “Follow me,” she orders in a clipped tone. “The both of you.”

Murasakibara’s lips thin at the command, but he obeys. Furihata follows on quiet feet, and takes a quiet note on the number of adults that he sees. They cut through an opened hallway, and a group of kids run past in a drill-like fashion. They’re dressed in Academy-issued gym clothes. Furihata swallows at the sight of them—they look no older than nine.

They’re all orphans, foster children, and runaways, most likely. The Academy was very fond of choosing children no one would miss, and enroll them into their “Resocialization Program”, which explained their actions to the public for admitting, as society called it, problem children. Majority of those children were year-long students.

Contrary to what the government and public believed about Teikō’s year-long students, the Academy supplied them with expensive clothes and traditional, exquisite food. The subtle manipulation made Furihata think of a quote he once read a while ago: _why bite the hand that feeds you?_

The Academy was clever in supplying high-class luxuries to their students. To the orphans and foster care children, who had few things to call their own, Teikō Academy was a dream. Why would they rebel and run from the place that fed them, gave them a bed to sleep in? Those students did not have a support system, and the Academy exploited that fact until their presumed end.

The woman leads them to the end of the hallway, and stops in front of a wooden door. The plaque on the door reads: _Captain of Squadron 1-C – Sugino-sensei._ Without a word, the woman opens the door and shoos them inside. The door shuts behind Furihata with a definitive click.

Sitting behind a messily organized desk is a man wearing square-rimmed glasses and a lab coat you’d expect a scientist to wear. He perks up when he sees Murasakibara. “Ah, yes, my new pupil,” the man says, and then waves to the two armchairs positioned a few feet away from his desk. “Sit, sit.”

Furihata has no choice but to obey. Murasakibara scowls once again, but he sits nonetheless. Tense silence floats in the air as the man scribbles his last words on whatever paperwork he’s doing, and then he smiles as he caps his pen.

“Good morning, Shield,” the man says, and then looks at Furihata. “Ah, you must be Furihata-kun?”

Furihata nods.

“Good, good, you’ve caused quite a bit of trouble, you know, what with your normal status,” the man tells him, almost jovial in tone and expression, as if they were discussing something as amusing as dog tricks. “Now, Shield, you have been assigned to a new Unit.”

Murasakibara blinks.

“They’re a year younger than you,” the man continues, “about fifteen, I believe, and I am your Captain, Sugino-sensei. Now, your Unit consists of—,”

“They are not my Unit,” Murasakibara replies, blithely. “And I will not listen to whatever you say.”

Sugino’s face hardens. He presses a button on his desk and, a minute later, three men enter his office. “The White Room for Shield,” Sugino orders. “It seems he has forgotten the rules of Teikō Academy.” 

Murasakibara knows he could potentially put Furihata in danger if he struggles, so he follows the men out of the office with a mulish scowl on his lips. Furihata sits in silence, and watches Sugino fill out another form, lips pinched together.

“Now,” he says once he’s done, “what to do with _you._ You are very perplexing, Furihata-kun, because your files are blocked, and restricted.”

Furihata’s heart leaps in his throat.

“You’re a bit too old to undergo our operations,” the man hums, “so I think it would be best if you stayed quiet, yeah? Don’t interfere, don’t say a word, stay in the background, and everything will be fine, don’t you think so?”

Furihata says nothing.

A demon murmurs against his skin at the sight of Sugino’s patronizing smile, but Furihata tells it to quiet itself.

It is not time, he repeats. It is not the place.

The woman leads Furihata back to the bedroom when the demon snarls at the sight of one of the children nursing a broken arm, but Furihata shoves it down. _Not yet_ , he thinks as he hears her cries. _Not yet._

 


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Kuroko no Basket | The Basketball Which Kuroko Plays. It belongs to its’ mangaka, Fujimaki Tadatoshi. This is for entertainment purposes only. 
> 
> Enjoy!! I will get around to replying to your comments as soon as possible!!
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTE  
> I am very swamped with papers and projects at the moment, so the final chapter (and the sequel) may take a while to be published but I will not be giving up on the series!! Feel free to drop by on my tumblr (@sleepykenmas) if you ever have any ideas/prompts/questions about the series! I'd be honored to answer you!!

He meets the other two members of Murasakibara’s new Unit the third day he is there. There is only two of them, and they are both smaller than Furihata, who is, perhaps, the smallest out of all his friends (bar Kuroko and Momoi, of course. He doesn’t know Coach’s height, but her personality makes her seem taller than the average woman).

“S-Soul,” the first one stammers out, eyes wide and nervous, before he adds, “Um. Empath.”

“Hello, hello,” the other says, beaming, but Furihata can see the pain he hides. His eyes are bright, but there is a dim, almost gray, tint to them. Something pulls at the back of his mind, a memory at the sight of this boy’s eyes, but it slips away before he can grab it. “I am Bug! I’m a spirit manipulator.”

Furihata’s eyebrows rise to his hairline. Mistaking his expression for alarm, Bug explains, “I can read auras, and sense people’s presence. I guess, I can sense someone’s level of danger?” Bug scratches the back of his neck, and shrugs. “I dunno, it’s weird, and I’m still working out all the kinks.” He pauses, and his slightly befuddled expression turns pensive. “Your aura is really pretty compared to the other teachers—calm, and quiet, and peaceful. It blocks out all the other violent colors. I like it.”

Furihata blinks, unsure of how to respond. He looks around the room and sees that there are neatly made bunkbeds, but they look as though they haven’t been used in a while. His heart makes itself comfortable in his throat. He knows what an empty bed means, especially here.

“Is there…?” he starts, and then swallows the grief in his throat. “Are there others besides you two?”

There are seven people to a Unit in the Academy, and there are four Units per Squadron. Unless, of course, there are deaths. And there will always be deaths in a place like this.

“There was,” Soul whispers.

Bug rubs Soul’s arm. “They all, uh, died during their operations, or, um, went insane,” Bug explains and then swallows. Grief clouds his eyes. “We—we had to take out three of them, and—.” He stops. It is evident the memories of their dead Unit members were too fresh.

Soul finishes. “Seventeen. Rose. Purple,” he breaths out, eyes glassy and wet. Furihata’s heart aches for these two boys, and those who died knowing they would only be free in death. “So much pain. So much hurt.”

Furihata, more than anyone probably, knows what it feels like to lose your entire world. he knows what it’s like to bury your family too quickly, too soon. He knows the weight of grief, and the poison it brings.

“I had a family once,” he finds himself saying, lost in the memories of those he called brothers. Bug and Soul don’t say anything, only burrow themselves to his side.

His emotions and aura say more than enough.

*

The White Room breaks Murasakibara into pieces every day as the teachers attempt to “weed out” his defiant, lazy behaviors. Furihata does his best to stitch him back together every night. He reminds Murasakibara of his lover, of his team, of the people who await their return. He tells him stories of his family, of the happy days before misery and grief sunk into their bones.

“Your name is Murasakibara Atsushi,” Furihata says every night, without pause, as the teen trembles in his arm, as he aches from his healing wounds. “You are almost a second year at Yōsen High, and a basketball prodigy.”

Every night, a demon murmurs in Furihata’s ears. It begs him to be released. It yearns to seek revenge for Murasakibara’s wounds. Furihata ignores the urge. It is not the time. It is not the place. _Not yet,_ he attempts to placate. _Not yet._

“Who are you?” Murasakibara whispers, hoarse and pained. “Where is my Unit? Where is King? Phantom?”

“My name is Furihata Kōki,” Furihata replies. His heart aches and weeps in his chest. The demon rumbles. “My code name is Harbinger. I am your friend.”

“Furi-chin?” Murasakibara says after a tense pause, distant and hollow, and his breath shudders against Furihata’s neck. _“Furi-chin.”_

They stay curled around one another for a while, drinking in the other’s presence, taking comfort in the dark. Murasakibara moves as he comes back to himself, but he doesn’t stray far. He simply curls himself around Furihata, and his long limbs make it possible, and it is clear he is attempting to shield Furihata from those who come through the front door as best as he possibly could.

“Thank you, Furi-chin,” Murasakibara murmurs, voice thick with emotion. Furihata’s heart aches in his chest as he hears the tremors in Murasakibara’s voice.

Furihata makes himself comfortable in his position but falling asleep is difficult in the atmosphere Teikō boasts. He’s tense, waiting for anything sudden, unexpected, either a security guard passing by for late night inspections or a memory to hit him full force. Murasakibara pokes his cheek, slightly diffusing the tension, and asks, quietly, “Ne, Furi-chin? You awake?”

“Yeah.”

Murasakibara ponders on his words for a brief moment before he asks, blunt, “Do you like Aka-chin?”

Furihata’s mind short-circuits. It is dark, almost pitch black, but he knows Murasakibara can see the red dusting across his face. “Wh-Why—where did that q-question come f-from?”

Murasakibara smirks, like he knows something Furihata doesn’t. “Well, Aka-chin always talks about you in our group chat. It’s all ‘Furihata has this opinion’ or ‘furihata thinks this’ blah, blah, blah, so I’m curious,” he then pokes Furihata’s cheek once more. “Eh? You’re very warm right now, Furi-chin.”

“It’s your fault,” Furihata says, glumly, and then he adds, quieter, “…he really talks that much about me?”

“Yeah,” Murasakibara says, and his smirk smoothens to a smile. “Even more than Ki-chin.”

Furihata swallows, and his stomach does weird flips at the thought. He had never given romance much thought when he was younger. His world was too dangerous to think of something like love, and he lived in a place where the things you held close would disappear the second you blinked, where others would whisk away what you loved, either platonically or romantically, while laughing at your grief.

Because of such a mentality, Furihata went about his days ignoring his attraction to the red-haired Miracle. He ignored his wistful thoughts of what it would be like to be Akashi’s boyfriend, of what if Akashi returned his feelings. He ignored the way his stomach fluttered in an unfamiliar way whenever he texted Akashi, or spoke to him over video chat, or saw one of his genuine smiles. He ignored all the signs of his feelings, all the glaringly obvious devotion, because, for most of his life, he thought he would not live long enough to experience life as a normal human.

“I do like him,” Furihata admits, and it feels like a breath of fresh air, like a weight lifting off the middle of his chest. “Both as a friend, and as something more,” —Furihata’s voice quiets, and he curls into himself, growing shy and doubtful— “but Akashi-kun doesn’t like me like that anyway.”

Murasakibara is quiet, and then he gently ruffles Furihata’s hair. He feels like he is interacting with an older brother figure, and his heart stammers at the warm, casual affection. “Silly Furi-chin,” Murasakibara says, fond yet exasperated. “Both of you are so blind.”

“What?” Furihata asks, befuddled at the statement. He attempts to pry more from Murasakibara’s mouth, but the giant closes his eyes and, childishly, states, “I’m going to be now, Furi-chin.”

It takes a while for Furihata’s thoughts to calm.

*

Furihata, much to his chagrin, settles into a routine on the sixth day. He wakes up and attends breakfast in the Dining Hall (which wasn’t really a hall, mostly a large room with three tables in it—one for Furihata, Murasakibara, Bug, and Soul; the other consists of the Unit of nine-year-old’s, and the last table is for the Captain’s and General’s), then, after breakfast, he sits on the sidelines and watches them practice their morning drills, doing his best to restrain the demon when he sees one of them get hurt, and, always before lunch, Murasakibara refuses to do something which causes him to be escorted to the White Room.

He always, always does this when he notices the General get annoyed at the nine-year-old’s, who struggle with the training regime, and the weapons.

After a quiet lunch, drills continue, and then both Units attend class (Furihata isn’t surprised New Teikō continues their education. Before their purpose of assassination, they were first, and foremost, an institution of education), and then there is a short break before dinner. Sometimes, the children are whisked away to the operation tables. Sometimes, they go to the White Room. On Day Four, two from that Unit went to the med bay (which was where they experimented and operated on their students), and did not come back.

Furihata had much difficulty constraining his demon when he watched two teachers give the Unit the news of their deaths.

“We called her Yellow,” Blue, the twin girl, says to Furihata.

Green, Blue’s twin brother, sniffles. “A-And he wanted to be called P-Pink, because of-of his hair.”

Red says nothing, only cries quiet tears. The other two members, Lilac and Amber, hold each other’s hands tightly, lips pursed.

During breaks, he speaks to Bug and Soul. He gives the nine-year-old’s kind smiles, and subtly wipes their tears, but he says nothing while doing these things. If he does, he is not sure he will be able to stop the demon from crawling out of his mouth. The time for the demon to emerge is soon. Furihata can feel it in his bones.

He knows they will be rescued, despite the mocking from the other teachers who taunt him about never returning. They are from the D and C classes of the original Academy, for those who worked with A and B were arrested or killed during the Fall.

“Maybe we should make you a servant,” one of them suggests. “Since you are worthless to us as an assassin.”

Furihata does not correct their assumptions.

(His phone is on the premises. It is turned off, but sits on Sugino’s desk as a mockery of freedom. He does not tell them the truth.

 _Momoi-san put a tracking device on it,_ Kuroko had said earlier.

He smiles to himself instead, and waits. He is very good at waiting.)

*

The demon struggles to surface when a teacher (the General of Squadron 1-C, Bug explains quietly) breaks Soul’s wrist for fumbling with his knife. Bug senses his intent, and holds him in place. On the other end of the training room, Murasakibara seethes.

“S-S—,”

“Shut up.” The General sneers. “Do it again, and you’ll spend the night in the White Room.”

Soul flinches violently, but nods. “Y-Yes, sir.”

The demon rages. Furihata stays quiet and stares at a spot on the wall. Next to him, Sugino writes something on a clipboard, and hums underneath his breath. The General blows his whistle once more, and the training exercises continue.

It is not time, he tells the demon. It is not the place.

*

It is Day Seven, and only Blue, Green, and Red come down for breakfast. Furihata knows, without even glancing at them, that Lilac and Amber have died. He counts to ten three times in his head, and his skin prickles uncomfortably.

It is almost time.

*

“You are not the Unit I grew up with,” Murasakibara tells Bug and Soul as they stand in the backyard. Furihata sits on the little porch of the outdoor hallway, and watches the nine-year-old trio search for insects in a flower pot.

“Red,” Green says. “Have you found any butterflies?”

“No,” Red says. Her orange hair is pulled back into low pony tails. “What about you, Blue?”

Blue shakes her head, and looks at her twin brother. “Green?”

Green pouts, and looks at another leaf.

 “But, regardless,” Murasakibara continues, “We are now a Unit, and I will do my best to make sure you live.” His lips twitch in amusement. “I am called a Shield for a reason.”

“S-Same,” Soul says, so eager to please.

Bug grins, wide and innocent, and Furihata sees the hint of the boy he was before New Teikō. “I’m very good with throwing knives, despite, you know, being partially blind,” he says. “But I’ll take out anyone before they can get within three feet of yah!”

“Good, good,” a man says as he steps out into the backyard. Murasakibara pulls Furihata out of view immediately. Soul and Bug stand next to him protectively. Unit Rainbow huddle closer together, their search for bugs abandoned. “I like to see this sort of loyalty without training involved.

Soul swallows. “H-Hayashi-sensei…”

Hayashi Katsu was one of the board members of Teikō Academy, and, most of the time, acted as the school’s principal as well. During the Fall, he had fled the school and lived in exile ever since. _Of course,_ Furihata thinks to himself. _Of course, this man is here._

“I see we have a normal on our grounds?” Hayashi quirks an eyebrow at the General, who flushes a bright red and replies, “I—we didn’t—those sent to retrieve Shield grabbed him—.”

“I read the report, General,” Hayashi says, an amused tilt to his lips. “I know why he’s here.” He then looks at Murasakibara, though it feels as though he is staring right at Furihata. “Well? Let’s see him.”

“I don’t think so,” Murasakibara growls, defiance in his stance.

Hayashi’s eyes narrow. “Oh?”

Furihata rests a hand on Murasakibara’s arm and says, “It’s okay, Shield. I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t know what they’re like,” Murasakibara says, lowly, hollowly, “You don’t know what they will do—,”

“I do know,” Furihata interrupts, and smiles at the way Murasakibara blinks, puzzled, and a little dumbfounded, at him. He steps out from behind, and stares at the man who ruined the lives of hundreds of children who expected him to keep them safe.

“Hello, Hayashi-sensei,” Furihata greets, quietly satisfied at the sight of the man’s shock. “Thought I would never have to see your face again.”

Hayashi sucks in a deep breath at seeing Furihata’s smile, and then his eyes glint. “Well, well, well,” he purrs, “ _You_ are Furihata Kōki? How peculiar. How _interesting.”_

Murasakibara growls, and takes a threatening step forward. “You will not touch him,” he tells the man. “You will not hurt him.”

“You do not have the authority to tell me what I can and cannot do, Shield—.”

“No,” Akashi Seijūrō says, one eye red and the other gold, beautiful and regal and a breath of fresh air to Furihata, as he steps out from the trees, “but I most certainly do.”

Hayashi scowls at the sight of the SDF squad revealing their positions. “How long have you been there?” he demands. “Trespassing?”

“Long enough,” Kise Masayuki says. “Your reign of cruelty will end today.”

There are echoing shouts and crashes coming from the inside of New Teikō. They are surrounded, and Hayashi’s face clouds as he realizes this. Panic, and rage, and fear flash over the man’s eyes, and then grim determination settles on his expression.

Furihata starts to unwrap the bandage he once promised to never remove when Hayashi moves to the trio.

Red shrieks from pain when Hayashi grabs her by the neck, lifting her up in the air. She kicks and struggles, but freezes when Hayashi tightens his grip, and presses a gun against her temple. “If anyone comes closer, or draws a weapon,” he warns, “I’ll kill her.”

“No, you won’t,” Masayuki soothes, but his expression falters, like he isn’t sure of his words. “Put her down, Hayashi-san. Okay? No one has to get hurt.”

Hayashi stares, stone-faced and cold. Red chokes in his grip, and blood drips from her neck. His fingers twitch around the trigger with intent.

A demon begins to crawl out of his mouth, but Akashi steps forward, and his eyes glow. “Release her,” he Orders.

Red crumbles to the ground, gasping and sobbing, and the twins drag her away from Hayashi’s reach. They huddle behind one of the soldiers. For a pause, Hayashi blinks, as if stunned by the command, and then his face darkens. “You should not have done that,” he tells Akashi, and aims his gun.

A demon paces underneath his skin.

“You will not shoot me,” Akashi says Hayashi.  “You are just like the others—a coward.”

Hayashi’s fingers twitch.

“Hayashi—,” Akashi begins, eyes glowing once more.

_“NO!”_

The gunshot screams in the air.

Furihata’s ears shatter at the ricochet. He screams, a horrible, guttural, visceral sound ripping from his throat, and moves without thought. He covers Akashi’s body with his own, pushing him away from the bullet with ease, and there is a wet warmth spreading over his side. Akashi’s eyes are wide, so red and so gold, brimming with fear and realization. Then, there is pain.

_Painpainpainsomuchpain_ _—_

He comes back to himself, almost abruptly, violently, to the sound of Akashi’s quiet, ruthless rage. “I,” he seethes, “will rip you apart _limb. From. Limb.”_

Little hands press against his wet side. A private from Masayuki’s squad stumbles with a tiny first aid kit. Furihata turns to see Unit Rainbow huddled next to him, each of them in tears as they tried to stop the bleeding, end the hurt Furihata has been trained since birth to endure.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, and a demon begins to spill out of his blood. His pristine white bandage lay crumbled on the ground, soaked in the blood that freely flows onto the ground. He wipes away their tears, and leaves streaks of his blood on their cheeks, and echoes, “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not,” Green protests. “Nii-san, you’re really—,”

He starts to stand.

“What are you doing?” Masayuki barks, reaching for him. “Don’t move so much—,”

“Aka-chin,” Murasakibara growls, a hulking presence of murder and wrath. “Let me _crush him.”_

“Not yet, Atsushi,” Seijūrō says, calm despite the blood at his feet. Hayashi garbles a mangled mess of words and sounds, and he stumbles back away from the enraged assassin. His blood splatters on the patio floorboards. “I would like to have a… _word_ with—,”

“Seijūrō,” Furihata interrupts, standing as though he wasn’t shot, didn’t whiteout from the initial shock. He ignores the protests from others.

 “What the…?” Bug murmurs, watching, raptured, at the blood that spills out of Furihata’s scar. “What—?”

Furihata walks forward. His side twinges from the wound, but Furihata is used to it, so it is easy to ignore. A ripple of murmurs scatter throughout the tiny squad of soldiers as they see him move, as they catch the shimmery glimmer of Harbinger’s sword of blood.

“Kōki,” Seijūrō Orders, “Don’t—.”

“That is not my name,” Harbinger says, and smiles.

Soul blinks, perplexed. “Wh-What?”

“My name is Harbinger,” he says, and feels satisfied at the horror sprawling over Hayashi’s eyes.

 “No,” Hayashi whispers. “Haruna said you _died_. Said all of Unit Star was _dead_. She wouldn’t lie. She wouldn’t betray me like the other vermin.”

Harbinger tilts his head. “You have been betrayed by many before. Why should this be any different?”

Hayashi sucks in a breath and, seizing the opportunity to run amidst the shock of Harbinger’s reveal, stumbles toward the back door, his limbs flailing in the air from erratic movement. Harbinger smiles a smile of death as the demon has spills out of his lungs, and he is a deathly, enraged presence seeking revenge.

*

No one expects Furihata Kōki.

Not until he has a knife buried in their ribs.

*

Teikō Academy experimented on their students, regardless of their gender, of their age, of their background. Furihata was born in Teikō Academy like all the others in Unit Star, and has been experimented on since his birth. The scientists and doctors (the “medical staff”) of Teikō whisked him away from his mother, and brought him to the operating table only three hours after his birth. When he was two, his parents rebelled against the Academy, and “kidnapped” him, but their rebellion was for naught as they were discovered four months later, and a man had said _take him_ instead of _kill him_.

Glutton teleported. Sun read minds and shared memories. Mushroom manipulated fire and light to his will. Astral manipulated the air. Vision manipulated his and others’ sight. Pitcher manipulated water. Furihata can manipulate blood.

(There is a reason, after all, why he is called the Harbinger of Death.)

 


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Kuroko no Basuke | The Basketball Which Kuroko Plays. It belongs to its’ mangaka, Fujimaki Tadatoshi. This is for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Well, it's the final chapter!!! Thanks so much for joining me on this journey. I'll finish replying to your reviews from last chapter in a little bit! I hope you all enjoy!!
> 
> Don't forget, if you ever want to know more about this AU feel free to drop by on my tumblr @sleepykenmas!!! I'd love to hear any thoughts/prompts/ideas/even headcanons on this if you have any!! 
> 
> I'm really happy for all your support :D

_“This place can’t break you, Harbinger,”_ Astral had once told him as he nursed a broken arm from a mission in Europe. _“Not like how it’s broken everyone else.”_

The Academy couldn’t break Furihata—they tried. They threw him in the White Room on a nearly monthly basis, but he never stumbled or stammered or sobbed when he was sent back to his dormitory. He never begged for the pain to end. He never begged for forgiveness for a crime he never committed. He was silent through punishment. They forced him to watch a friend die in the White Room, telling him that _this is what happens to traitors, Harbinger,_ and _loyalty to Teikō for life or it will be you who dies next_.

Furihata remained rebellious in miniscule ways. He would take a detour during a mission to catch a glimpse of an interesting show. He would slip inside a theatre for a few moments. He would order a milkshake if he could. He would help those who were weaker in the Academy, whisper shortcuts into their ears as he watched them struggle through the rigorous training regime. He would reply to teachers with subtle, snarky quips that never sounded sarcastic unless you listened hard enough.

The Academy did not break Furihata, not like how they broke other students. Not like how they broke Unit Miracle, or Unit King, or Unit General. And because of Furihata’s unwillingness to break and bend, his Unit left him behind for places he could not reach. Furihata could survive in the Academy.

The rest of Unit Star could not.

*

Furihata comes back to himself in pieces. He knows, vaguely, of what he had done at New Teikō. Hayashi had died by his hand, and he knows it was a painful, bloody death. The demon had relished in Hayashi’s screams.

(Screaming. Sobbing. So much screaming. So much blood. Harbinger sways on his feet, hissing from the pain in his side, but he doesn’t stop. Hayashi does not deserve mercy for what he has done.

King touches his wrist and Orders, “That is enough, Harbinger.”

Harbinger, for once, obeys the command.)

The hospital room is quiet, and moonlight casts shadows along the walls. One of the first thing Furihata notices is the abundance of Miracles in his room. Murasakibara is slumped over on the long couch across from his bed, tucked against the wall, (Furihata knows he escaped his hospital room and sneaked into this one, given the hospital gown he wears) and Kise is curled up next to him. Kuroko looks squished but comfortable in between Aomine and Momoi. Midorima sits against a wall. They are all asleep, snores and drool pouring out of their mouths.

Akashi sits in a prim, imperious manner in the armchair next to Furihata’s bed. He is awake, protectively vigilant to anything that may threaten Furihata’s sleep. His eyes are still red and gold. “Kōki,” Akashi—no, it tis Seijūrō who speaks now. “How are you feeling?”

Furihata blinks, dazedly. He still isn’t sure what he is seeing is correct. Why would the Miracles be in his hospital room? _Why_ was he in a hospital room? When did he _get_ into this hospital room? “Sei?” he manages to croak out nonetheless, but the rest of his name fades from his lips.

Peculiarly, Seijūrō’s face softens, and he presses his lips against Furihata’s forehead. The little peck is warm, and pleasant, and his toes curl from the feeling. “Go back to sleep, Kōki,” Seijūrō says, softly, but it’s less of an order and more of a plead. “Get some rest.”

“Wha’ happen’d?” Furihata slurs. “Haya’hi?”

“You were shot,” Seijūrō replies. “Hayashi is dead.”

Furihata blinks, slow and blank. “Shot?”

“Yes,” Seijūrō murmurs. “That was very reckless of you, you know, pushing me out of the way.”

“Used t’ pain,” Furihata murmurs. “I’m—assassin.”

“The Harbinger of Death, I know,” Seijūrō says. He stares at Furihata as if he is seeing the moon for the first time, eyes soft and full of wonder and reverence. “Don’t do that again, Kōki,” he continues, and his fingers tremble as he grips Furihata’s hand tightly, as if he would fade within seconds if he didn’t. “You almost died. I almost lost—.” He stops himself and whispers, “I have lost so much already, Kōki. I do not think I could bear—.” Seijūrō stops again, and his expression shutters, as though he is putting his overwhelming emotions into a box to deal with on a later date. He closes his eyes.

When he opens them, they are both red.

“Sleep now, Furihata,” Akashi tells him.

His eyes glow.

Furihata falls back into a blissful slumber.

He wakes to sunlight streaming into his hospital room, and Aomine’s: “—so you’re telling me this, this _midget_ , is _one of us?!”_

“Yes, Aomine-kun,” Kuroko says dryly, “that _is_ what Murasakibara-kun just said.”

“Kōki is the third blood manipulator the Academy has ever created,” Seijūrō explains, “as well as the fourth person to have been born in the Academy’s medical wing.”

The silence is disturbing, but Furihata feels himself falling back into a languid haze when Kise gently touches his hand and whispers, “He was born there?”

It is one thing to be in the Academy for three years; it is another thing entirely to be in Teikō since the beginning of your existence.

 “Yes,” Seijūrō says. “I am led to believe that Kōki was operated on as soon as he was birthed, as well.”

“It makes sense,” Momoi murmurs. “The other two blood manipulators—Omen and Reaper—were both born in the Academy, and worked on as soon as they were two hours old.”

Kise sniffles. “Furihatacchi.”

“Kōki is also,” Seijūrō continues, “the leader of Unit Star.”

“Unit _Star?!”_ Kise squawks. “You—you mean the A Class Unit everyone sought to be? I mean—I knew Furihatacchi was in the Academy, but I figured it was Class B, not _A!”_

“The first Successes of Teikō, despite the tragedy at their door,” Kuroko muses. The rest of Unit Miracle fall silent, pondering on the things they have learned from someone who looked so normal, and so innocent.

Furihata falls back asleep. There is nothing he can say to the conversation anyways.

*

When he wakes up for the third time, Masayuki, Satomi, and a man who is vaguely familiar are in his room, conversing to one another in low tones, considerate of his slumbering form. Satomi brightens when she notices that he is awake.

“Good morning, Furi-tan,” she says as she bustles to his side, and grabs the small cup of water on the bedside table. “You thirsty, kiddo?”

After taking a few sips of water, Furihata sits up and clears his throat. “Um, hi?”

Satomi snickers at his awkwardness, and ruffles his hair. “Man, I missed you so much, you know?” she tells him, in a slightly wistful tone. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

Furihata nods, but he is still confused about the unknown person in his room. Sensing his question, the man brightens and says, “Hello, Furihata-kun. I’m Takao Hajime—I believe you’ve met my son, Kazunari?”

“Yeah, I know him,” Furihata says, and raises an eyebrow. “But…no offense, but why are you here, Takao-san?”

The man’s lighthearted expression settles into something more determined, more severe, and he says, “Furihata-kun, I am a social worker assigned specifically for students from Teikō.”

Furihata swallows. He knew this would happen when he started talking about his guardian. He sighs, eyes dropping to his lap, and says, “Let me guess, my guardian is no longer suitable to have custody of me?”

“That is correct,” Satomi says, very gently, but firmly all the same.

Furihata stomach churns uncomfortably. He would prefer to remain with his guardian, but he understands that there are higher powers at work. in the eyes of the law, regardless of his status as an assassin, he is a child. He has no choice but to obey their verdict on who he must live with until he grows older.

His guardian has given him two things—his name, and his freedom. For so long, Furihata was Harbinger, and Harbinger was a boy drowning in the blood he shed. He has lived in the Academy his entire life, secluded in his dormitory hall whenever there was no class or mission to attend. His guardian was the only person who said, “ _Furihata Kōki_ —it is what your parents called you before you became Harbinger. This is your name now. _”_

His guardian did not rescue Furihata in a vice for redemption, but, rather, to complete his parents’ dying wish. “I’m doing this for your parents, kid,” his guardian had said. “They died trying to take you away from this shithole. Least I can do is finish what they started.”

His guardian is the only connection Furihata has with his parents, and he really, really doesn’t want to let that connection go.

“Who am I going to live with now?” Furihata asks.

Masayuki gives him a smile. “It’s me, Furihata-kun.”

Furihata smiles, and Satomi wraps her arm around his shoulder and cheers, “Welcome to the family, kiddo! Well, you’ve kind of always _been_ in the family, y’know? But, well, welcome again!”

Furihata finds that he wouldn’t mind getting a new guardian if it were Masayuki.

“Furihata-kun,” Hajime says, “I do have a few questions for you, however.”

“Ask away, Takao-san,” Furihata says.

Hajime smiles and nods. “It’s a simple questionnaire, really. Since we know Teikō commonly enrolled orphans, foster kids, and, uh, problem children into their school, I was wondering if a previous guardian of yours encouraged you to apply?”

Furihata blinks at the question, and, slowly, his eyes widen. The adults look at his reaction, perplexed. “Furi-tan?” Satomi asks. “Are you alright?”

 _They don’t know? How do they not_ _—_ He stops his train of thought. He knew his file was private, and restricted, and one had to jump through serious hoops to simply see the first page. All those who were born at the Academy had a file like that, as a safety precaution.

“I,” Furihata begins, slowly, “was born in the Academy.”

 _“Born there?!”_ Masayuki says, horrified at the implication. “You mean—your parents?”

Furihata nods. “They were involved in the Academy, yes. But they rebelled against the Academy when I was two, and, uh, took me away.”

“And?” Hajime prompts, understanding there was more to the story.

“They were murdered shortly after their betrayal,” Furihata explains, “and I was taken back to the Academy. All in all, my previous, uh, guardians, were the Captains of Unit Star.”

Satomi shares a glance with the other three. “A lot of the kids are tightlipped about the inner workings of Teikō—what do you mean by Unit? And Captain?”

“Each classroom was called a Squadron,” Furihata began, gathering his thoughts, “and each Squadron’s homeroom teacher was the General. In each Squadron, there were four Units—and a Unit contained seven assassins, unless, of course, there was a death within the Unit—and each Unit had an overseer, the Captain.”

“I see,” Masayuki murmurs.

“Are there more of you?” Hajime asks, hesitantly, “Like…children who were born there?”

“Yes,” Furihata says. There is no harm in explaining this to them. Teikō was finished, destroyed, and Hayashi was dead. “My entire Unit, for one, were all born in the Academy. Most of the Units in Squadron A were born in the Academy. B’s were mainly foster kids, runaways. C and D had kids who took the entrance exam and enrolled that way, like Unit Miracle.”

 _You’ve missed a lot of kids,_ he wants to say. _Those who managed to run away before the Fall._

He says nothing, and waits.

“One last question, I promise,” Hajime says, and then collects himself and asks, “I know from the reports, you weren’t rescued during the Fall. Did—Did you runaway?”

“ _Are_ there runaways?” Satomi adds.

Furihata almost smiles, but nods. “You’ve missed a lot of kids who managed to run before the Fall,” Furihata tells them. “I know a few of them, but not all,” he stops, pauses, and takes a deep breath. “What do you know about my guardian?”

The three share a glance over his head.

“Not much, kiddo,” Masayuki says.

Hajime furrows his eyebrows together. “Which is…very peculiar.”

“My guardian was the Captain of my Unit,” Furihata explains, and is almost (almost) amused at their reactions. He sobers, however, and continues. “A few days before the Fall, my guardian gave me two things.”

“Which was what?” Satomi whispers.

“My name,” Furihata says, “and my freedom.”

Masayuki hums, understanding in his eyes. “Is that why you don’t want to leave them? Because you feel like you’ll be giving your freedom away?”

Furihata is quiet for a while, before he shakes his head. “No, I—I _used_ to think like that, and then I realized that my name is still _mine_ , regardless of who gave it to me. No…my guardian is my only connection to my parents.”

“They’re a _relative?”_ Masayuki asks sharply.

Satomi’s eyes harden.

Furihata understands their reaction. To the Kise’s, family is everything. They always go first. It was why, bar Akashi Masaomi, Kise’s family were one of the loudest voices calling for Teikō’s blood and ultimate destruction for what they had done to one of their youngest family members.

“Family friend, really,” Furihata says.

“Same thing,” Satomi almost spats out. “And they treated you like—like _that!_ Furi-tan, tell me, have they even come visit you since you’ve been here?”

“I don’t know if I’ve told you this, but my guardian doesn’t care about me,” Furihata says, and is quietly amused and awed at their apoplectic expressions. “I was only rescued as a means of finishing what my parents died doing.”

Satomi clenches her fists. “If I ever see your guardian…”

Her threat lingers in the air.

Furihata hopes his guardian is scarce for a while.

“Well, this is a very tense atmosphere,” Himuro says, slinking into the room without regard to the adults. “Hello, Furihata-kun!”

“Um,” Hajime blinks. “Who?”

“This is my brother,” Furihata tells them. “Himuro Tatsuya.”

Masayuki stares at Himuro. “B-Brother?”

“We’re not really related,” Himuro says, smiling pleasantly, still holding a bundle of flowers. “But our entire Unit grew up together, so we just consider ourselves siblings.”

Satomi nods. “Makes sense.”

“Wait,” Hajime straightens, and gives Himuro an intensive stare. “You were born in the Academy as well?”

“Yup,” Himuro grins. “The name’s Astral, but just call me Himuro.”

Masayuki peers at Himuro. “You weren’t rescued with the others, I don’t think.”

Himuro shakes his head. “No, I escaped the Academy long before it’s Fall.”

Hajime tilts his head. “How long?”

“Hmm, well, I was ten, I think, when I almost died on that mission,” Himuro muses, quietly, oblivious to the shocked looks from the adults. “And I was rescued by—well, she _was_ my guardian before I was adopted.”

For a while, his room is silent.

Then, Furihata sighs. “Anyway, what are you doing here, Himuro?”

Himuro pouts. “I can’t visit my little brother?”

Furihata stares at him.

Himuro sniffs. “This lack of trust is very disconcerting.”

Furihata says nothing, and stares.

“I have flowers,” Himuro says, and sets the flowers and a plush toy on Furihata’s lap. “And a little, um, bird thing. It’s from Iwatobi.”

Furihata glances down at the creature. It stares back, eyes wide and, frankly, disturbing. Furihata looks at Himuro, who is still smiling, and then at the bird. It can’t even be _called_ a bird—it’s head is a rock. He has known Himuro for years, and he knows that everything he does has a double meaning.

“That’s some…bird,” Satomi says.

“We should go to Iwatobi,” Himuro suggests. “I heard it’s a nice town—one of their newly made teams made it to Nationals, like Seirin!”

There is a small, little card tucked inside the bird’s beak. Furihata looks at Himuro. He is still smiling.

“Alright,” Furihata says, slowly, a little bewildered. He’ll read the note later.

Himuro’s eyes sparkle. “We’ll plan out the details later, Furihata-kun! I have to go see Atsushi now.”

Himuro leaves, just as quickly as he came. Furihata and the others blink at the closed door, perplexed at the interaction they witnessed.

Furihata sighs, and wonders what storm he just started when he barely survived the last one.

*

Furihata attempts to eat the hospitals’ pudding when Unit Rainbow scramble through his door. Red leads them, her hair bouncing on her shoulders, and she gives him a gap-toothed smile. “Harbinger,” she cheers, “Guess what? Guess what?”

Furihata smiles. “What?”

“We’re leaving today,” Red informs, and her grin seems to widen. “I haven’t seen my family in so long—I can’t wait to see my big brother!”

“Me too,” says Blue.

“Me three,” Green says. “And, also, big brother’s friends! They’re in a swim club— _and_ they went to Nationals!”

“They were on TV,” Blue tells him, awed and proud. “At least, that’s what the nurses said.”

“I hope someone recorded it,” Green says to his sister. “Remember how Ma would always record nii-chan’s competitions and stuff?”

“Ooh,” Red jumps in, “My brother plays volleyball!”

“No way!”

“I love volleyball!”

Furihata watches them, smiling fondly. He always had a soft spot for the younger children in the Academy, especially those who had seen so much in such little time. He knew that Red, Green, and Blue were not orphans or runaways. They were kidnapped, probably by the same people who grabbed Murasakibara, two months after the Academy’s Fall.

Red was an earth manipulator. Blue teleported, like Glutton, and Green was a fire manipulator (which was a little ironic, given his love for swimming).

“ _There_ you are,” a nurse says from the doorway, exasperated, “Say goodbye to Furihata-kun, now, okay? It’s time for you three to get ready to go.”

“That’s your name, Harbinger?” Green asks. “Furihata?”

Furihata nods. “It is.”

Green smiles. “I’m Ren.”

“I’m Ran,” says Blue.

“I’m Natsu!” Red cheers, and skips towards the nurse. “See you later, Furi-nii!”

The twins chorus the same goodbye on their way out, and soon, Furihata is surrounded by the quiet. He’s going to miss them, that’s for sure.

*

His stay at the hospital is brief, since he heals quicker than a normal human, and soon he finds himself standing in front of his new bedroom. Masayuki lives in a neighborhood three blocks away from Seirin High, and it’s a modest one-story home. There’s only three bedrooms—Masayuki’s, his, and, surprisingly, Sachiko.

“I didn’t know Sachiko-chan lived here,” Furihata said during the tour of the house, and worried his bottom lip. “Are you sure she’s okay with me being here?”

“She was ecstatic,” Masayuki replied, and ruffled his hair. “And, yes, she is my only child.”

Furihata didn’t ask about Masayuki’s wife, and continued the tour in oblivious ignorance. It wasn’t his place, after all.

“I know it’s not much,” Masayuki says, fumbling with his sweater sleeves. “But, over the weekend, when you’re better, we can head to the store and—,”

“Masayuki-san,” Furihata interrupts, his voice shaky from swallowing his tears. “It’s…it’s more than enough. Thank you.” Furihata blinks wildly at the sight of the bed, the dresser, the computer desk and chair, and the _closet_. All Furihata had was a suitcase of clothes and miscellaneous items he smuggled out of the Academy, and a futon, blanket, and pillow, from his guardian to sleep on. “I—I don’t deserve—,”

“I’m going to stop you right there, Furihata,” Masayuki says, passionate and firm. “You _do_ deserve this. You deserve _more_ , you hear me? Just—Just the fact that you’re getting emotional over the bare necessities says _a lot_ about your previous guardian.” Masayuki pauses, and takes a deep breath to calm himself, and, without preamble, pulls Furihata in a hug.

“Welcome home, kiddo.”

Furihata tries to swallow his tears.

(he fails)

Masayuki leaves him to unpack and unwind. It takes Furihata twenty minutes to unpack his entire life, and the sight of his meagre belongings made him feel both sad and a little pathetic. His phone pings with messages—well wishes from his teammates, from that group chat he’ll probably ignore forever, and from the Miracle’s.

“I COME BEARING GIFTS,” Sachiko declares, loudly, as she bursts into his bedroom. There is a towering pile of blankets and pillows in her arms, and it goes well over her head, so Furihata understands her need to shout. “THERE ARE BLANKETS AND PILLOWS.”

“Um, S-Sachiko-chan, I don’t need—,”

“YES, YOU DO,” Sachiko ignores him. “YOU’RE SO SKINNY FURI-NII. SKINNY PEOPLE GET COLD EASIER, YOU KNOW. I THINK.”

Furihata blinks. “Th-Thank you.”

“YOU’RE WELCOME,” Sachiko then dumps the pillows and blankets on his bed. “I’ve always wanted a big brother, you know,” she says, and then gives him a blinding smile. “And now you have a little sister, too!”

Her hands flutter at her sides, as if she isn’t sure what to do with them, and then she surprises Furihata by wrapping her arms around his waist for a quick, but gentle, hug. She giggles at his expression, releases him, and twirls away though not before saying, “Some pretty boy is here for you!”

Furihata blinks. “What.”

Akashi steps inside of his new bedroom and smiles. “Hello, Furihata-kun. I’m glad you are feeling well.”

“Hi, Akashi-kun,” Furihata greets. He is still a little confused about what he feels about Akashi, but he is certain that he likes the redhead (probably more than he should, as a friend). What he isn’t certain about, however, is what Akashi feels about him. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything is fine, Furihata-kun,” Akashi says, and then gives him a look. “I should be asking _you_ that.”

“I’m fine,” Furihata says, and then smiles, almost bitterly, “It wasn’t my first time at the Academy, you know.”

Akashi hums, and gives him an appraising look. For a moment, they say nothing. Furihata can see words forming on Akashi’s mouth, and waits, giving him the time he needed to gather his thoughts. “Furihata-kun,” Akashi said at last, “I admit I came here with another motive in hand.”

Furihata tilts his head. “And what was that motive?”

“If you are amendable,” Akashi says, prim and proper, “I would like to court you.”

Furihata blinks, stunned. He knows his face resembles the color of a tomato. His stomach flutters, and he can’t help but think back to that moment with Murasakibara, when he said, “you and Aka-chin are so blind.” _Ah,_ comes the thought, _this is what he meant._

“Romantically,” Akashi continues, and curls a hand through his hair. “Of course, I understand if you wish to still be friends.”

Furihata blinks again, and stares. _This,_ he thinks, _is a first._ After a minute, he says, “Akashi-kun, I’ve never been in a relationship before. It—it was too dangerous, back in the Academy.” He swallows, and gives Akashi smile. “I would love to, um, be courted by you, Akashi-kun, but, um, can we take it slow?”

Akashi smiles, vibrant and soft. “Of course, Furihata-kun. The last thing I would ever want to do, is make you uncomfortable.”

“You don’t,” Furihata tells him, and it’s the truth. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so comfortable around anyone else before.”

For a moment, silence descends into his room. Furihata and Akashi stand there, smiling at one another, and Furihata, briefly, wonders if they look weird.

“Aww,” Sachiko coos from the doorway. “Furi-nii has a _boyfriend!”_

“S-Sachiko!”

“DAD!!” Sachiko takes the chance, and dashes away from Furihata’s room. “GUESS WHAT JUST HAPPENED!”

“SACHIKO, STOP YELLING IN THE HOUSE!”

_“GUESS WHAT, OLD MAN!”_

Furihata holds his head in his hands and groans.

Akashi laughs.  

It is a wonderful sound, to Furihata’s ears.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Before anyone attempts to bite my head off, I spoke with the author of the Designation: Miracle series, and they enthusiastically encouraged me to write about this story once I had asked if it were alright, since their series gave me inspiration. 
> 
> I would also like to thank five_lanterns for being the beta of this story! They've been an amazing help throughout my writing process, and I honestly wouldn't have finished if it weren't for them! (please go read their stories, all of them are amazing!)
> 
> If you wanna talk about this story or, well, anything really, I'm @sleepykenmas on tumblr, and I'm always up for a chat!
> 
> UPDATE 8/24: i used to be dreamingunderthetstars on AO3 and @sleepykenmas on tumblr. Now, I am dreamtowns on AO3 and @sleepydekus on tumblr!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dying to be Normal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14298279) by [widdlewed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/widdlewed/pseuds/widdlewed)




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